


Divination for Skeptics

by olivieblake



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Soulmate AU, an alternate title might have been 'statistically yours', technically soulmate math
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-05-14 15:45:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 98,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19276393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olivieblake/pseuds/olivieblake
Summary: The latest in magical advancements is an enchantment that reveals the bearer’s romantic compatibility with another person. Effectively eliminating uncertainty from dating, the charm can tell you whether or not you’ve found The One with a precise, Hermione Granger-approved calculation of traits and preferences. It’s a foolproof method of predicting relationship happiness. It’s also, for Hermione, positively dreadful news. Dramione, post-war, soulmate AU. COMPLETE.





	1. Never Wager With a Sicilian

**Divination for Skeptics**

_**Summary:** _ _The latest in magical advancements is an enchantment that reveals the bearer's romantic compatibility with another person. Effectively eliminating uncertainty from dating, the charm can tell you whether or not you've found The One with a precise, Hermione Granger-approved calculation of traits and preferences. It's a foolproof method of predicting relationship happiness. It's also, for Hermione, positively dreadful news. Dramione, post-war, soulmate AU._

 _**Disclaimer:** _ _I do not own these characters and claim no profit from this work. Credit where credit is due, Joanne Rowling._

 _ **a/n:**_   _I've been asked many times to write a soulmates/soul scars AU, and I have finally, sort of, managed to do it. This story takes place shortly after the events of Deathly Hallows and I expect it will update weekly. I can't wait to start another adventure with you, and I hope you enjoy the story!_

* * *

**Chapter 1: Never Wager With a Sicilian**

_Diagon Alley, London  
14 March 2001_

Hermione spotted Harry at the front of the room, slunk so low in his chair with his arms folded that he appeared, from a distance, to be napping. She rolled her eyes fondly, nudging aside one of the other press correspondents and falling into the empty seat beside him, poking him awake.

"Ouch, bloody Christ, I—oh, it's you." He sat up, yawning. "What are you doing here?"

"What are  _you_  doing here?" she retorted, fussily moving his arm aside and inspecting his badge, which read EVENT SECURITY. "Security?" she echoed, scoffing aloud. She raised a brow in reference to the exceedingly tame audience, which consisted of no more than twenty other journalists and reporters. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," Harry replied with a reluctant indication of agreement, settling the badge back against his shirt—which was, per usual, atrociously wrinkled. Hermione glanced around, confirming that no one from  _Witch Weekly_ was watching before casting a quick, silent charm, pressing the fabric smooth and then, after a moment's hesitation, tucking the tails neatly into his trousers.

Harry scarcely noticed, raking a hand through his unruly hair and turning to her with a frown, glancing narrow-eyed at her own press badge. "This is what the  _Prophet_  has you covering?" he asked, surprised. "I thought you were a Ministry correspondent."

An unpleasant reminder, but it had been bound to come up. "Recently, I've been… reprimanded," Hermione confessed, lowering her voice. "It appears Minister Shacklebolt didn't care for my last exposé, or so my editor informed me when he banished me to the meaningless swamp of—" She broke off, repulsed, before admitting, "Human interest pieces."

Harry chuckled. "Well, you  _did_ specifically say that anyone who agreed with the Wizengamot's plan for modulated creature reform had fewer convictions than a mimbulus mimbletonia and the frontal lobe of a decapitated spider."

"So?"

"So, I assume Kingsley didn't care for it," Harry mused, "seeing as he authored the bill."

"If he wasn't prepared to handle criticism, he shouldn't have gone into politics," Hermione replied, pursing her lips. "And anyway, we were talking about you, not me. What's a war hero and star Auror doing supervising an unremarkable press conference?" she asked him, considerably doubtful. "I can't imagine there will be any assassination attempts. Or even mild havoc."

Harry shrugged. "Crowd control is part of the job," he replied, sounding as if he'd been recently reprimanded himself. "Apparently it's the best place for my particular… enthusiasm."

Hermione winced. The last time Harry and Ron had been on duty in Knockturn, Harry  _had_  caused something of a highly public scene, chasing and disarming a man he thought to be under the Imperius curse who, it turned out, was merely intoxicated, and on his return from what a less polite person might call a brothel.

That, and he had also been the son of a prominent and none-too-pleased Warlock.

"I think Harry just gets a bit worked up, that's all," had been Ron's subsequent commentary to Hermione, revealing their supervisory Auror had evaluated Harry in the incident report to be, quote, 'unproductively paranoid.' "A Dark Lord was after him for most of his life, wasn't he? And nobody ever suspected anything back then, so I guess it's not that surprising that he overdoes it sometimes, really. Either that, or he's just bored," Ron added conclusively around an overlarge bite of sandwich, at which point Hermione prompted him to chew, for heaven's sake, with his mouth shut.

Ron's final thoughts on the matter were that Harry would get used to it, eventually. "S'easy," Ron said, referring to the daily functions of a newly-minted Auror. "Which is probably what he hates."

Hermione wasn't surprised to hear Harry wasn't adjusting well to civilian life. Adherence to authority was a difficult thing to re-learn (or, in Harry's case,  _learn_ ), particularly after everything they had been through.

"Well, still. It's quite a good experience, isn't it?" she asked him in reference to his event security post, pitching her voice to its most optimistic. "Maybe they just think you're well-suited to spotting trouble before it starts, hm?"

Harry gave her a doubtful look. "Thanks, Hermione," he said, "but I don't think—"

Above them, the lights dimmed.

"Oh, hush, it's starting," Hermione said hastily, nudging him with relief and conjuring her quick-notes quill. She hated to emulate Rita Skeeter in any way, but it was an extremely efficient way to organize her thoughts. "You know," Hermione added, leaning over to speak in Harry's ear as the rest of the press cavalcade took their seats, "I'm actually quite excited about this one."

Harry turned with surprise. "You've seen it?"

"Yes. Helped him prepare for this presentation, actually, though I'm just as surprised as you that he bothered preparing at all. The mathematics behind the enchantment are actually quite sound," she remarked, which was as close to extravagant praise as she'd ever accomplished for him, "though naturally, I'm not surprised he came to me for confirm-"

"Ladies and gentlemen," announced a disembodied voice as Hermione gestured to Harry that she'd finish her thought later, "please welcome to the stage the founder and Chief Executive Officer of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, George Weasley."

George took the stage wearing a ruffled purple shirt, a violently lilac overcoat, and a camel-colored tophat. After Hermione had informed him he looked precisely like a ginger Willy Wonka—which was then followed by his enthusiastic interrogation as to how the omnipotent overlord of a sweets empire had gotten away with the colonization and subsequent enslavement of the indigenous peoples of Loompaland—George had stuck to the outfit, treating it like something of a blinding, desperately unappealing uniform.

"Yes, yes, hello, I'll be brief," George said, reaching the podium and pausing for the snap of a dozen camera flashes. "As many of you know by now, my brother Fred and I always aspired to own more than just a joke shop for children. We always dreamed of supplying the wizarding world with whatever methods of amusement we could possibly conjure between our not-inconsiderable imaginations, and now the time has come for Weasley Industries to venture into a new arena of entertainment."

He paused, smiling his heinously amoral smile at the crowd before revealing, with intensive deliberation:

"Sex."

Hermione fought a groan as beside her, Harry stifled a laugh, and at least three correspondents behind her choked on their coffees.

"You had a hand in this?" Harry murmured to her, amused, and she scowled.

"Oh, he's just having a laugh, as usual. You'll see." Her quill, charmed to leave out references to lewdness or obscenity, paused in sentient trepidation, and Hermione gave it a brisk nod, impatiently advising it to continue.

"It's difficult to have, isn't it?" George asked the crowd. "Long-term, I mean. There's so much stress in dating, always wondering whether you're  _compatible_ , whether you're  _meant to be_ —why, it's positively exhausting. What if there's someone else out there?" he asked the crowd, and Hermione glanced around from her seat, noting with relief that despite George's characteristically unorthodox presentation, there were the occasional interested nods in agreement. "How will you possibly know if you've met the one?" George mused, taking on a very solemn expression and then gripping the podium, leaning forward to add into the mic, "Well, spoiler alert, I've fixed it."

He waved a hand as two silken banners dropped behind him, featuring the scripted letters  _MEANT 4 ME_ :  _THE WORLD'S FIRST FOOLPROOF SPELL FOR ROMANTIC COMPATIBILITY._

"Interesting," murmured Harry, his brow furrowing in contemplation, and Hermione nodded, pleased by the sound of fascinated chatter from the audience behind her.

"How does it work, you ask?" George posed, adopting a patrician stance from the podium. "Well, I'll tell you. The  _Meant 4 Me_  spell analyzes a target individual for a variety of traits and then produces, in one simple number, a percentage of compatibility with the charm bearer. Simple, straightforward, and discreet, the charm allows the bearer to see a single number on any prospective paramour's wrist, which is visible only to the charm's user."

He waved his hand a second time, the banners changing to feature an animated illustration of two people. "Here you can see Person A," George said, referencing the first of the animated characters. "We'll call her Ginevra. And the other—" He paused, scanning the crowd, and then grinned. "Let's call Person B… Harry."

Harry rolled his eyes but gave a gruff motion of his chin, suggesting George get on with it.

"Now, Ginevra already has the charm, which means she can see her percent compatibility with Harry." On the wrist of the animated Harry, a number glowed with a pale white iridescence:  _97%_. "This is true of anyone Ginevra meets," George continued, as three other animated characters appeared on the banners with three numbers on their wrists, respectively:  _46%, 71%, 31%_. "If Harry were to get the charm as well—" George motioned for the animation to continue, prompting a number to appear on Ginevra's wrist. "You can see his percent compatibility with Ginevra is a confirmed 97%, and so on and so forth."

As the Harry illustration turned to the other three participants, three new numbers glowed on their wrists:  _84%_ ,  _69%_ , and  _45%_.

"No one but Ginevra can see Ginevra's numbers," George assured the crowd. "Likewise, only Harry can see his own, thus preventing any embarrassing situations—say, discovering over a polite family dinner that you're more compatible with your girlfriend's brother than you are with her," he added with a wink, to which Harry sighed loudly, shaking his head.

"So what determines the number?" called a correspondent behind Hermione, and George looked up, spotting the reporter in the crowd.

"Well, I'm so glad you asked," he said approvingly. "The number is designed to analyze personality traits, genetic feasibility, and sexual preference. It does not take into account gender or any sort of binary identification, and the sexual component exists on a sliding scale. For example, for someone who is asexual, the charm will weight their sexual compatability appropriately," he said, "just as it would for someone with a voracious sexual appetite."

"What about friends," someone asked from the front row, "or family members?"

"Family's easy. The genetic component will take care of that," George said, prompting an illustration who looked precisely like him to show a low, glowing  _4%_  when matched with Ginevra. "Sparkling sense of humor and leggy dexterity aside, genetic diversity is crucial for overall compatibility. Or so I've been relentlessly nagged by certain 'science' enthusiasts."

Harry slid Hermione a sidelong glance.

"What?" she whispered. "It  _is_  important!"

"As for friends," George continued, "the charm will not indicate platonic compatibility. That, I'm afraid, is up to you to determine. It may, however, help to persuade you one way or another," he advised, "should you have any intent to pursue any troublesome feelings you may have for someone you currently consider a friend."

The whispers grew louder, peppered now with tones of excitement.

"The  _Meant 4 Me_  charm is a one time, by-appointment enchantment which can be performed at any Weasley's Wizard Wheezes location," George said. "Its purpose is to take the uncertainty out of dating, and as such, it will be available for the very reasonable cost of—"

The banners changed again, flashing with a single numerical digit.

"One galleon," George announced, and immediately, the crowd around Harry and Hermione burst into noisy chatter. "Yes, I'll take questions from the audience, one at a time, please—"

"One galleon, huh?" Harry said, leaning in to speak to Hermione privately. "Seems fairly low, doesn't it?"

"I said the same thing," Hermione replied with a nod, "but George rather cleverly pointed out that it only works if everyone has it, so…" A shrug. "Plus, a galleon from every eligible witch and wizard in the United Kingdom eventually turns quite a profit, I assume. Along with everyone who becomes eligible as time goes on."

"I can't imagine anyone would actually want it," Harry replied with a laugh, and then hastily sobered, noticing Hermione's look of confusion. "Wait. Do you?"

"How can you even ask that, Harry? Of course I do," Hermione scoffed, admonishing him with a glance. "Wouldn't you want to know for sure you were meant to be with Ginny?"

"No," Harry said. "Seems restricting, doesn't it?"

"How is it possibly  _restricting_?" Hermione demanded, her voice rising a bit with a mix of indignation and inarticulate confusion. "It's… finite, it's  _definite_ , and—for godric's sake, Harry, it's  _mathematically sound_ —"

"Sure," Harry agreed, shrugging, "but what happens if you and Ron aren't compatible?"

"Don't be ridiculous," she told him. "Ron and I are perfectly compatible."

" _Are_  you?" he countered, sounding a bit doubtful. "You argue quite a bit, you know."

"Well, of course we do," Hermione sniffed. "That's just how we function."

"And you told me yourself the sex was—"

" _Shhh_ ," she hissed, glancing over her shoulder despite knowing full well no one was paying them any attention. Understandably, the others were much too enthralled by George's presentation to notice any messy-haired Boys Who Lived flagrantly revealing the private love lives belonging to their close platonic friends. "I love him, Harry. The rest will eventually sort itself out—"

"Right, but that's my point, isn't it? What if you  _love_  him," Harry said, "but you're not compatible with him? Or," he pressed tangentially, "what if the person you're fully compatible with lives somewhere in another country? It's a big place, you know, the world," he pointed out. "Seems highly improbable that the person you're 100% compatible with lives in the same city you do, much less that you happened to meet them when you were eleven."

Hermione frowned. "Well, I—"

"So," Harry pressed on, "what do you do if that number is… 80%? Or even 90? What if it's  _high_ ," he postured neutrally, "but it's not 100%? Do you choose to hold out for the one?" he pondered, choosing an unsatisfactory time to begin experimenting with Hermione's usual method of laboring a point to death. "And if you choose to keep looking, then at what point do you stop?"

Hermione considered it a moment, lips pressing together thinly, and then shook her head, dismissing the theoretical exercise for precisely what it was: farcical catastrophizing.

"You're being unnecessarily apocalyptic," she informed him. "And besides, I thought you approved of my relationship with Ron?"

"Of course I do, you're both my best friends, but—"

"Because I'll have you know, Harry, that Ronald and I are one-hundred percent compatible, and I have no doubt in my mind about it. In fact, I'll prove it," she informed his smug expression of skepticism, knowing as she did that Harry Potter could never resist a dare. "I'll go this afternoon and get the charm done myself, and then you'll see I'm right."

His green eyes danced beneath his glasses. "Oh, will I?"

"Yes," she confirmed, firmly thrusting out a hand, "you will."

"What's this?" he asked, inspecting her palm with a laugh. "Is this a wager?"

"Yes," Hermione said. "Obviously."

"But you hate bets," Harry reminded her. "You always say you're highly risk av-"

"Yes, yes, I'm risk averse, I know, but the trick is, Harry Potter, I've got the winning hand this time. I  _know_  that Ron and I belong together," she said firmly, "and I'll bet you the cost of the enchantment on it."

"One galleon?" Harry said doubtfully. "Seems like low stakes considering it's your entire relationship on the line, doesn't it?"

"Yes, one galleon— _in addition_ to your handwritten confession that I'm always right and you're always wrong," Hermione informed him, ignoring his subsequent groan of laughter.

"Oh really, Hermione? So we're including the Eileen Prince fiasco in that, then?" he asked drily. "Not to mention the Deathly Hallows—"

"For every Eileen Prince and Deathly Hallows, there's a me-being-right-about-a-basilisk," she reminded him. " _And_  the journal,  _and_  the potions book—"

"Fine, fine," Harry conceded, rolling his eyes. "Alright, a wager, then."

"Good. So," she prompted, holding her hand out again, "do we have a deal?"

He accepted her grip with spectacular arrogance, raking his free hand through his hair and mussing it so thoroughly Hermione made a mental note, wager or no wager, to charm it respectably flat before they parted.

"Deal," Harry confirmed, closing his hand around hers as George and his  _Meant 4 Me_ banners vanished ostentatiously from the stage, a small cloud of questionably-scented confetti precipitating from the ceiling in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: Hello and welcome to a new story! As you may know, The Commoner's Guide to Bedding a Royal is now complete, so my best guess is this will take over TCG's update time slot. Next chapter: the results of the bet, plus what a certain pair of independently wealthy rakes about town have been up to in the meantime. Oh, and the chapter title comes from The Princess Bride: "Never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line." Thanks for reading!


	2. Hopeless and Awkward and Desperate

**Chapter 2: Hopeless and Awkward and Desperate**

_One Year Later  
10 June 2002_

The  _Meant 4 Me_ charm was, above all else, an enormous fucking joke. Frankly, the only reason Draco Malfoy had gotten one at all was because he and Theo had too much money and not enough sense between them, and also, because they had dared each other (mutually) on a whim. The dare was, of course, fueled by thirteen too many rounds of Ogden's and also by the occurrence of Draco's final parole hearing, which had gone swimmingly. And by swimmingly, a word being used in this context to define something less afloat than simply adrift, Draco might have more accurately used the word 'conveniently,' as the Warlock's final ruling on the subject went as follows:

 _It is herewith determined that the Defendant—_ here used in reference to Draco Malfoy, former Prefect and temporary (but reformed!) associate of Lord Voldemort— _having satisfactorily completed the reparatory requirements issued by the Wizengamot following the verdict of Guilty_ in re  _Criminal Misconduct during the Second Voldemort War (see also Case #40192, "Dumbledore, Albus, Attempted Felony Murder," and Art. 314(b), Criminal Intent to Use Unforgivable No. 1)—_ blah, blah, it clearly sounded worse than it was— _including but not limited to a rehabilitation programme emphasising Public Decency, Moral Education, and Proper Conduct, will henceforth be released from Wizengamot Supervision—_ here defined as 'the hawk-eyed watch of one Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress and executioner-by-proxy'— _for purposes of reabsorption into Wizarding Society—_ i.e., the world at large _._

It had the ring of reasonability to it. Largely because it failed to mention the subtler but still undeniable reality, which was, in two parts: 1) that overcrowding as a result of post-war renovations was causing such an extensive financial crisis for the struggling Ministry that they were forced to pardon all non-violent offenders (for which Draco narrowly qualified thanks to some well-timed Astronomy Tower hesitation), and 2) that Draco Malfoy was, for whatever reason ("Certainly not your looks," sniffed Theo, with which Draco firmly disagreed) the chosen martyr of the woebegone pureblood class. To wit:  _He was little more than a child; Purely a misguided soul; Subjected to the failures of an unstable Hogwarts curriculum run by an anarchist madman;_  et cetera et cetera, so on and so forth. In sum: if Draco Malfoy burns for his sins, we'll riot. Typical nihilist nonsense, really, except in this case, vengeful rhetoric happened to be inciting enough to frighten the half-healed Ministry into submission. Thus, the judiciary Warlock in question—who was, lightly put, not a fan—had little choice but to release Draco from his sentence of mandatory oversight.

"You may be a pointy little twat, Mister Malfoy, but you're certainly a lucky one," had been the parting words from the Ministry On High, followed by the slam of a Wizengamot gavel. It was a lesson, really. Not in the hazards of being a pointy twat, but in a much more favorable outcome. Things were considerably easier if one did one's very best to be born rich and also, placed a healthy limitation on one's ultimate contributions to genocide.

Surely anyone could see for themselves that, given the situation, there had been little choice ("To the boy who had no choice!" caroused Theo, carousingly) but to celebrate Draco's lukewarm victory with, quote, "excessive intoxication," this having been barked in his face by one of the staff at Twilfitt and Tattings after discovering Theo's impressive cyclone of ladies' hats. (And it  _was_  impressive, really, because Theo had forgotten his wand at the previous establishment, having deposited it in a flower bed outside the tavern, and in the end Draco had been the one to bet the posh bastard he couldn't create any chaos more objectionable than the purposeful asymmetry of the hats in question, so. Fascinator, indeed.)

"Go back to Azkaban where you belong you little lowlifes" had been the last thing Draco and Theo heard before half-smacking into the god-awful Weasley shop, which on that particular day had a line halfway out the door. The truth was that nobody was going to arrest them no matter what they did, provided nobody died (always a close call but, as Theo pointed out, Draco had never killed anyone before, even when he was supposed to) so they'd hopped into the queue and begun rancorously serenading each other until the line gradually diminished to nothing, leaving them face to face with a horror surpassing the Almighty Law Itself: one of the Weasley twins, who could not be so easily sidestepped.

"Nothing better to do than harass my customers, I take it?" asked the Weasley, who had either once cursed Draco's tongue to adhere the roof of his mouth whenever he said the word 'balaclava' (a particular disturbance during the week they discussed the magical impact of wizardry during the Crimean War) or caused a faint ringing in his ear to the pitch of a slightly flat B-sharp for two days, depending which twin he was or had been at the time.

The answer was, of course, no, they did not have anything better to do, as Draco had spent the last three years under mandatory Hogwarts supervision and this, his first day of verily undeserved freedom, was being spent with Theo Nott, who was now and had always been an unholy combination of manic energy with a singular distaste for authority. More a weedy set of trickster-god qualities (complete with an ardent devotion to antics) than any sort of human man, Theo was nonetheless Not An Idiot, and therefore he and Draco had drifted apart during their primary Hogwarts years as a result of Draco's extracurricular activities: conspiracy to commit murder, criminal intent, destruction of private property, and—who could forget—possession of illegal intoxicants with intent to distribute (as if anyone could have gotten through a year of the Carrows without being massively under the influence). Given the circumstances—i.e., Draco being either a living symbol of saintly redemption or a publicly reviled criminal with no credible middle ground—it wasn't as if there was anyone else he could call.

Hence, Theo.

"What's this?" Theo asked the twin who, evidently, could have only been George, which Draco later realized was probably at least partially his fault, while pointing via narrow-eyed squint to the brightly-colored banners on the shop's window. "Meant 4 who?"

"Not me," said George. "We're a 28% match." He turned to Draco, pursing his lips. "We're 22%."

At that point, Theo had of course leaned over to ask Draco if he thought George was communing with vengeful ghosts, to which Draco had replied he couldn't possibly be, not on a Tuesday, to which George had said I can hear you you smarmy dolts, to which they replied it was unspeakably rude to eavesdrop, at which point George had sighed and said two galleons to leave me alone, to which Theo said do you mean  _us_  pay  _you_  two galleons to leave you alone and George replied yes, which had prompted Draco to indignantly ask why, to which George had said because it'll be funny that's why, which was a rationale Theo had never been able to resist.

"50%," Theo observed when it was over, and then, with a frown, "What?"

"Means you're 50% compatible with him," George replied, gesturing rather impolitely to Draco, "now leave."

"50% compatible with  _me_?" Draco scoffed, turning to Theo with palpable disgust. "Impossible. No offense."

"Offense  _egregiously_  taken," Theo said loftily. "This side of you is clearly the incompatible half."

"You can't honestly believe this is real," Draco replied, and then turned to George with a frown. "How do we know you haven't just tricked us?"

"Well, for starters, I don't actually care what happens to you," George said.

"Fair," Theo replied. "Is there more?"

"No," George said. "Anything else?"

"Yes," Theo said firmly, glancing at the near-emptied shelves of Extendable Ears. "Do you also carry mouths?"

"Please tell me you don't want it for some sort of depraved sexual act," Draco said, repulsed.

Theo, openly wounded, replied, "Of course not. I'd simply like to be able to sing to you while you're in the shower."

George wisely escorted them to the door, advising them never to return as they, for whatever reason, had obeyed, newly fascinated with the charms they'd received. For the rest of the night they'd gently accosted strangers, looking around for percentages and seeing who between them would win, thinking it a hysterical game.

Little did Draco realize it would be the biggest mistake he or anyone had ever made, almost killing Dumbledore included. (Okay, maybe not that. Close, though.)

"Hm," Astoria said, chewing her lip as she glanced at the number, suddenly reluctant to remove her dress. "This is… rather sad, isn't it?"

Draco glanced at the glowing 45% on her wrist. "Sad?"

"Well, it's not even half," Astoria said, with a display of astounding mathematical aptitude. "Doesn't that seem worrisome to you?"

They had begun seeing each other during Draco's extended stay at Hogwarts. (He preferred to call it that, finding the implication of some sort of rehabilitation holiday a softer term than the consequences of his criminal sentence.) By Astoria's final year, they had been tentatively in the early stages of admitting they were dating; by the time Draco was released into the wild with his new sense of good morals and right conduct—complete with the Weasley enchantment that seemed to be spreading around like wildfire—the idea they might willfully surrender to the antiquity of pureblood courting wasn't the worst thing either of them had ever heard.

Or so he thought.

"Worrisome?" Draco echoed, and Astoria bit her lip.

"Well, yes," she said. "Even you and Nott are 50% compatible—"

"Please stop talking to Theo," Draco said, not for the first time. "It really can't be good for your health."

"—so for us to be less than that…" She trailed off, mouth slightly crooked with the start of  _it's not you, it's me_. "I'm just not sure I see the point, Draco."

"The point of what, us?"

"I wouldn't put it in those terms, necessarily," she sighed, "but I suppose, yes. What would be the purpose in continuing?" she asked him, pursing her lips. "We'll only break up, you know. That's the point of the charm, isn't it? Knowing for certain that we have a better chance of failing than not?"

"What, so now it's some sort of divination tactic?" Draco scoffed. "That's rubbish."

"Said like a Gemini," Astoria pointed out, which Draco very politely and with burdensome effort did not demean, demoralize, or huff at in any way. "Besides, predicting relationship happiness isn't rubbish," she informed him. "It's not as if it's some old bat with bad lipstick spotting your death in a pile of tea leaves. It's simply a fact, Draco, that we could be 55% more compatible with other people than each other."

"So you're breaking up with me," Draco summarized, "because a charm on my wrist tells you we don't belong together?"

"Well, it's just very logically sound," was Astoria's reply, and that was that. Last he'd heard, she was somewhere in the stages of being courted by one of the Flint brothers, with the two of them allegedly boasting a compatibility score in the nineties.

After a certain point, Draco couldn't round a corner without hearing people talk about the  _Meant 4 Me_ charm. It seemed everyone had one, men and women alike; within weeks, the unattached (or loosely attached) were ravenous for it. By December of 2001, the word "percentible," the inelegant portmanteau of "percent compatible," was declared the word of the year by Gorgon's Wizarding Dictionary. By February, the  _Daily Prophet_  released an astounding report that nearly two hundred divorces had occurred as a result of incompatible partners leaving each other for their employers/employees/lost loves/orthodontists as a result of the  _Meant 4 Me_  charm, which was nearly 600% higher than average. It was impacting everything, from the real estate market (no loans for couples with less than 60%) to conspiracy theorists ("The GOVERNMENT wants us all to be GAY for their LEFTIST AGENDA," declared one notable Warlock, who was by his own inexplicable admission only compatible with men), to the point where Draco could no longer pretend it didn't exist. Thirty seconds into any encounter with a woman and he could see her polite dismissal was a result of the obvious: the score on his wrist was too low to merit any further investment. It had never been above 50% with anyone, as Theo delighted in reminding him, and for the first time in Draco's life, it was a problem neither money nor blood status could solve.

Favorably, Draco wasn't the only one affected. Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley had broken up extremely publicly about a week after the charm's release, followed by rumors from Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley. The slow demise of their relationship had meant dragging its corpse around for months, the two of them obviously gritting their teeth while smiling dead-eyed into the cameras. Pansy, who had been seeing Adrian Pucey at the time, had her own engagement noisily broken off by her father, who had been unwilling to turn over half the Parkinson fortune to the Pucey family for their offensive (so he said) 67% match. Even George Weasley, the inventor himself, remained single for reasons he claimed were unrelated to the charm, though Draco privately doubted it.

As for Theo, well. It was impossible to tell how fully he lived in the scope of reality, so he either seemed or actually was completely unaffected. Mostly, Theo remained Draco's partner in rakish debauchery, devoting himself more avidly to aristocratic leisure and its respective overindulgences than to much of anything else.

Around the time Draco's and Pansy's respective relationships met their unfortunate ends, the two had resumed their previous school-aged habit of casual sexual engagements, tumbling drunkenly into bed around the Christmas holidays and continuing it as a weekly endeavor, like therapy. They were a laughable 33% compatible, hence the ease of their no-strings agreement, and by that June, a little over a year from the charm's initial release, neither had met anyone of note—though, not for any lack of trying.

"I suppose it makes sense," Draco said, zipping his trousers and hunting around for his shirt, which he eventually spotted draped atop her bedroom's chandelier. "I can't imagine any of us can be expected to find the person we're perfectly compatible with at twenty-two, are we? On the bright side, the average marriage age will probably increase," he considered aloud, "which isn't necessarily a bad th-"

"What on  _earth_ ," Pansy interrupted, glancing up from where she lay reclined against her excessive pile of pillows, "are you monologuing about now, Draco?"

He rolled his eyes, snaking his hand under the duvet and grabbing her calf as she yelped, kicking him away. "You know, the least you could do is listen."

"The  _least_  I could do?" she echoed, arching a dark brow. "I think I've already done the least I could do, and I don't believe I heard any complaints."

"Yeah, well—"

Draco broke off, grimacing, as Pansy's fireplace abruptly turned a furious shade of purple, a paper airplane shooting itself from the sudden burst of flame and flicking him beside his temple.

"What's Nott want now?" Pansy asked, slinking lower in the blankets and closing her eyes. From experience, Draco guessed she wouldn't make it to the end of the sentence before falling asleep.

"Probably nothing. If I had to guess, he's probably just bored at h-" Draco broke off, the note slapping his hand away as he moved to unfold it and, in lieu of opening, transformed itself into a beak.

"To the esteemed Mister Malfoy, may I begin by saying: blessings," the note squawked aloud in Theo's voice, prompting a single one of Pansy's eyelids to crack in opposition. "It appears I'm going to have to collect a small favor. Yours in divinity, Theodore Videlio Nott, Esquire."

"Well," Draco sighed, imagining Theo had probably tried to fence with the owner of the Leaky Cauldron again, or possibly stolen the sign outside Florean Fortescue's (it read "Everyone's favourite flavour!") for the third time, or possibly he'd riled up the owls at the Diagon post. "Probably just the usu-"

He broke off a second time as a translucent stag bolted through the wall of Pansy's bedroom, sending the majority of her hair askew on the gust of a magical breeze.

"Oi, Malfoy," said Harry Potter's voice, which was a sound Draco had not heard in years and yet could not fail to recognize, his entire gaggle of intestines seizing up in detest. "Much as I do not have any interest in speaking with you now or ever, Nott's in lockup and he tells me you're his emergency contact. You can collect him a- shut up, Nott. Nott, for fuck's sake, don't t- I said  _don't touch th-_  Jesus, how have you not been arrested before this?" Pause. "Please never say that again." Pause. "No, it's not funny." Pause. "I can't even begin to exp- no, you know what? No. Malfoy, just bring the bond money t- Stop it.  _Stop_. I sa- Ron, can you…?" Pause. "Wait, are you leaving?" Pause. "Fine, yes, you go, I'll handle it. He's just another bloody pr- oh, sod off, Nott. Yes—no Ron, it's fine, I told you I've got it. Why? Why what?" Pause. "Because he's done something wrong, that's why, and seeing as we both know Malfoy's only going to pay off the entire department if I don't—" Pause. "Yes, all night if I have to!" Pause. "Not like that." Pause. "Just shut up, Ron. Anyway, MALFOY," the stag barked, "JUST GET HERE AT 8 A.M OR SO HELP ME— _stop it_. Yes, you. Fuck, this is Harry Potter, by the way. For fuck's sake, Nott—"

The message ended with the stag's burst of dissipation into empty air, followed by Pansy's yawn.

"Alright, get out," she said, as Draco finally spotted his left shoe behind the dresser. "I've got some sort of stupid meeting in the morning."

"Another pureblood suitor?" Draco asked her, half-listening as he searched for the rest of his belongings.

"No. Worse. Well, not worse, but hardly ideal," she muttered, and then clarified with a shake of her head, "it's back to the Ministry again. Revenue and customs this time, in the DMLE."

Draco's right shoe, which was hidden under the bed, had to be summoned. "For what?" he asked, bumping his head on the frame and cursing under his breath.

"Tax fraud," Pansy replied, eyes closed again by the time he glanced up at her. "Or something."

"What, another audit?"

She shrugged. "They can't get us on any criminal charges from the war, I imagine, so continued attempts at financial difficulty it is."

Draco straightened, frowning. "And you're the one handling it?"

"Better me than either of my parents," Pansy said, which was probably true. "My mother's a beautiful idiot, for one thing, and you know my father's mind is halfway gone as it is."

Hence the desperation to marry his daughter off like he was some sort of reincarnated Borgia pope. "Ah," Draco said, checking that his buttons had been properly attended to. "Well, best of luck, I suppose."

"And to you," Pansy drily agreed, gesturing to Theo's note. "For the record, if you both get arrested simultaneously, don't bother calling me. I won't come."

Fair. Per their gentleman's agreement, she'd come often enough last night to prevent his turning to stone with boredom, which was a friend-adjacent service unto itself.

"Bye," Draco said, and apparated out, by which point Pansy, whom Draco already knew to be a teeth-grinding nightmare from the single occasion he'd accidentally broken his no-sleep rule, had already put in her mouthguard.

* * *

The year since the release of the  _Meant 4 Me_  charm had been… quite productive. Exploratory, as Hermione liked to characterize it when she was in a favorable mood, which she was very quick to assure both herself and others that she was, thank you very much. She had achieved a great variety of things, chief among them the expansion of her social circle. Call it dating, if you like—Harry did, despite her frequent protestations—but there was nothing wrong with a healthy sense of discovery. That her increase in social outings with potential partners only occurred after receiving the charm was purely  _correlation_ , not causation, and therefore the idea she may have experienced any adversity as a result of it was little more than a common logical fallacy.

Understandable, but irritating. Mildly. But ultimately, fine.

"So," said Terry Boot, carefully inserting the prongs of his fork into the flaky crust of a Leaky Cauldron pie. "You're… a reporter now, if I recall correctly?"

"Yes," Hermione said, dabbing at her mouth and glancing briefly at the 80% that glowed from Terry's wrist. She had already recorded it in her records, having bumped into him the week prior in Diagon. "I write for the  _Daily Prophet_."

"What sorts of articles?"

She aimed a purposeful stab into a spear of broccoli. "Hm?"

"What do you write? Political pieces," Terry guessed with a smile, "knowing you."

"Oh. Yes. Well." She reached over for a heel of bread, severing the innards from the shelter of its hearty crust. "I used to, but the Ministry was… less stable, back then. Not particularly in search of constructive criticism." She smiled crookedly, re-calibrating her tone before it darted off into tired unpleasantness. "I've put in for a promotion, though. I imagine you've heard Irwin Doge retired?" At Terry's nod, she explained, "They're expected to name the new Chief Ministry Correspondent in, well…" She glanced at her watch. Ten minutes. "About ten minutes, actually."

"Oh, I think Padma's up for that, too," Terry said, placing a forkful of meat pie in his mouth and hastily exhaling. "Hot," he explained, fanning desperately at his mouth, and Hermione, who at least had the sense not to bite into a fresh pie, fought not to roll her eyes.

"Which Padma?" she asked instead, forcefully polite.

"Pa'il." Terry's eyes had watered, his mouth quite obviously burnt. As if they were not  _wizards_  who could cast a bloody cooling charm. "She wa' in my hou'e," he added incoherently, reaching for his ale with a heavy swallow.

"Oh yes, Padma Patil, of course. Just making sure." She and Padma were friends, obviously. Distantly. Certainly on friendly terms, having spoken a handful of times over the past year. Padma had taken over Hermione's spot in the political news department shortly after she'd been placed on…  _probation_ , so to speak. Hermione preferred to think of it as a temporary sabbatical, finding that to be a more accurate reflection of its cause.

Of course, Hermione hadn't quite expected to be on temporary sabbatical from political news for an entire year, but here they were. She could only assume the trial period in question had been for the purpose of observing her more closely, in order to see how tactfully she provided the occasional guidance to Padma (unsolicited and certainly uncelebrated, but good deeds always were) and also to witness the superiority of her work over time. Essentially, to gauge whether she'd learned her lesson; which they would quite obviously assure her, as she had so diligently assured them over the past year, that she had.

Any minute now.

"I have to say, I'm surprised you agreed to have dinner with me," Terry remarked, diving into his pie again the moment he regained the ability to speak. Hermione was quite certain it was no cooler than it had been previously, but she supposed it was a timely shift in conversation. "I wasn't sure you were interested in dating anyone else quite yet."

"Hm?"

She watched him take a bite, flinching, and force a swallow.

"Ho'," he said a second time, reaching again for his ale with a shake of his head before turning to her with a smile. "Anyway," he said, after a heavy swallow, "last I heard, you and Weasley were—"

"Ah. Well. We like to keep our private lives private." Hermione forced a smile. "No sense parading around for everyone to see, hm?"

"Certainly better than what happened to Potter," Terry said with a chuckle. "Have to say, I felt bad for the guy."

Hermione tore off another piece of bread. "Well, with Ginny always traveling so much—"

"Really?" Terry asked, surprised. "I heard it was about their percentible."

 _Percentible_. Hermione bristled, tightening her hand around her fork.

It wasn't even a word.

"There are plenty of reasons relationships fail," she replied. "Distance, for one thing, as I said. Work schedules, et cetera." Which were still valid reasons even if Ginny hadn't gotten the charm, as Hermione liked to remind herself.

"Is that what happened with you and Weasley?"

"Sort of. Something like that." Certainly not her inability to forget that her compatibility score with Ron had turned out to be even less than Harry's 'Acceptable' Astronomy O.W.L.—for which she had always known perfectly well he'd never even breathed in the direction of the notes she'd prepared for him, much less a textbook. "Our timing was off, that's all."

Had Harry won the bet? Yes, according to technical terms, but as Hermione had been quick to argue, the  _spirit_ of the wager remained crucially indeterminable. Harry's  _intent_  had been to establish that she and Ron would inevitably break up if they were anything less than 100% compatible, which was so obviously not what happened. They'd broken up  _only after_  the emotional and psychological rigor of a few trying months, the majority of which Hermione had spent covering a series of travel pieces on haunted castles in the Scottish Highlands. Had she accepted the assignment despite it keeping her from London, where Ron worked? Only for the purposes of her career, which Ron had supported with  _clear_  evidence of long-term relationship compatibility. Had she confronted George about his research every night for nearly four weeks in the interim to triple-check her figures on the charm's valuation? Certainly not  _disruptively_ , and anyway, he had either moved away or run into trouble with his Floo, so no harm done. Had she ultimately happened to have a higher percentage with both Nearly Headless Nick  _and_ Professor Binns than with Ron? Yes. Had that had anything remotely to do with her decision? No, of course not, they were entirely unrelated.

So really, she hadn't  _lost_ , exactly. She had just… very much not won.

"Well, that happens sometimes," Terry said with a shake of his head. "Was it terribly low, then?"

She set down her butter knife, glancing up at him. "I beg your pardon?"

"The percentible." He laughed, and she flinched. "Come on, be honest. I won't tell anyone, and anyway, we all saw what you two were like in school—"

"We just… weren't a good fit, that's all," Hermione informed him, a bit annoyed. This was clearly what came from a missing 20% compatibility. She made a note not to accept anything below ninety again, adding, "In any case, I hardly th-"

She broke off, startled, as an owl landed on the table, a letter attached to its leg with her name in fine, delicate script.

"Oh, look," she exhaled, relieved the night was finally turning around. "This must be from my editor. Excuse me a moment," she said, smiling at Terry, and he gestured for her to continue, taking another idiotic bite of his still-scalding pie as she fumbled with the envelope.

She skimmed it, noting her supervisor's signature ( _H.M.S. Dauntless_  for Halloran Meister Sherwood Dauntless, which made him sound, aptly, like a bloated naval ship) and spotting the words  _pleased to offer_ , excitedly returning to the beginning.

_Dear Hermione,_

_I know you've been expecting to receive the Chief Ministry Correspondent position, so I thought I should deliver the news personally that, unfortunately, we've decided to go with another candidate. This is absolutely NOT a reflection on your obvious potential as a valued member of our writing staff. Your work in Human Interest certainly shows great promise! We simply feel you're hitting your stride as an up-and-coming writer, and would like to give you a few more years_

"YEARS?" Hermione barked, incensed. "Is this a joke?"

_to develop as a reporter before placing you in such a high profile position. Given both the sensitive nature of the work and your personal history with the Ministry, we simply hope to give you more time to convince us of your impartiality_

"Impartiality," Hermione echoed aloud, fuming. "Impartiality, really? They want me to have  _nearly died_  as a result of wizarding politics and then be  _impartial_  about them as a subject matter?"

"Uh, Hermione," said Terry, glancing at the wisps of smoke emanating from her knuckles. "Not to alarm you, but—"

_However, in recognition of your valuable contributions to this publication, this letter is not without its own promotion! We are pleased to offer you the newly-created position of Chief Correspondent in Popular Culture_

"YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME," Hermione snapped, the flame from the candle between them bursting aloft as Terry hastily shot backwards, his chair scraping against the wooden floor. "Pop culture, really? REALLY?"

"So, Hermione," Terry ventured apprehensively, staring at the table. "Listen, I'm just not sure I'm ready for anything serious at the moment… it's not you, of course—I'm just at a bit of a crossroads in my personal life," he said with a nervous laugh. "I'm…. well, I'm considering going vegan, so… that's got me very busy, and actually, I  _have_  been considering a move to Japan—"

_Regarding the Ministry position, the editorial staff has decided to promote Padma Patil to the position of Chief Correspondent, and as such_

This time, Hermione did not shout. She didn't scream. She certainly didn't charm any vicious birds to fall out of the sky and directly onto Padma Patil's face, which was so outrageously poreless it might as well have been made of stained glass. That would have been childish and undignified.

Instead, she decided she was going to tell the most influential person she knew that something would have to be done about the  _Daily Prophet_ 's obvious incompetence, and together they would sort this out.

"I'm afraid I have to leave," she informed Terry stiffly. "Shall we split the bill, then?"

She was, after all, a modern sort of woman, and meticulously thoughtful as a rule.

"Sure," Terry said, a bead of sweat dripping from his forehead as Hermione rose to her feet, depositing a handful of galleons on the table.

"Thank you for a lovely evening," Hermione offered graciously, and tossed the letter onto the flaming tablecloth, leaving it behind to burn.

* * *

Draco arrived at the Ministry five minutes late, which was not the result of any time-related difficulty. He simply did not want to be there an hour before work, which people were often surprised to hear was something he even did. It was a minor addendum to his parole release but still, a factor nonetheless. His "reimmersion" into society included the expectation of full-time employment, for which he was qualified to do… somewhat little.

Hence his perfect credibility for hire within the Ministry.

Draco's position in the Department of Magical Accidents was intensely unremarkable. He was not an Obliviator—the most prestigious position available in the department, which was still not particularly impressive—but rather, a case manager, which was quite a fancy term indeed for the person who showed up to do the paperwork when a minor stole a wand and accidentally turned the family cat into a balloon animal. (If that sounded specific, that's because it was. On the bright side, Draco had happened to be 27% compatible with that child's mother, and they had proceeded to have 27% of an explicit tryst before his supervisor sent him off on a subsequent case: an expired potion which had accidentally turned the occupants of an entire house a blinding shade of chartreuse.)

Needless to say, Draco was not in a hurry to arrive at his place of employment. True, Theo had never been arrested before, which was certainly unusual, but they were both men of means and therefore possessed a certain…  _fluid_  understanding of the law. As in, it did not apply to them in the traditional sense. In this particular case, Draco suspected personal contact from a former war hero wasn't strictly Auror protocol, and therefore he doubted an additional five minute's wait was going to make Theo's condition particularly dire.

He wandered into the Auror bullpen to find said war hero slumped halfway down his chair, eyes closed, but clearly not sleeping. Beside him, a predictably chatty Theo had his arms and legs bound to a chair, aiming a stream of commentary in an unresponsive Harry's direction. Draco, who was in no hurry to speak to his former school rival, opted to say nothing at all, wandering inside and observing them in silence rather than announcing his presence.

"Hey, Potter," Theo was saying. "Potter. Potter. Hey. Potter, are you listening? Potter." A pause. "Potter. Pot-"

"Jesus  _balls_ ," Harry mumbled, one eye snapping open. "What?"

"We should really discuss what this means for us," Theo informed him, just as Harry spotted Draco's presence at the door.

"Oi, Malfoy, you're late," Harry said irritably, ignoring Theo as he rose to his feet and cracked what had to be his entire spine. "It's fifty galleons."

"For what?" Draco said, immensely irritated. Not because of the fee, naturally, but because he was here at all,  _and_  because whatever Harry Potter may have been entitled to after his years of public idolatry, one of Draco's finer moods was hardly one. "What did you do?" he asked Theo, rounding on him where he sat in the chair.

"Nothing," said Theo. "Certainly nothing interesting."

"Drunk and disorderly conduct," Harry answered for him, turning to Draco. "He was raving like a lunatic in Diagon when I took him in. It's just a misdemeanor charge," he added, sounding unreasonably defensive. "It'll go on his record, but he won't have to appear before the Wizengamot if you just pay the fine."

"If he won't have to appear before a Warlock, then what exactly is the purpose of this exercise?" Draco demanded, sniffing the air and immediately regretting it as he placed the scent of whisky and revelry (Theo) along with tacos and carbonated Pep-Up potion (Harry).

"If you must know, I'm not interested in the self-important outrage I'd have to deal with from going after another untouchable pureblood," Harry said, with an air of trying to make a common fact sound like some sort of devastating insult. "But that doesn't mean the law doesn't apply to him, Malfoy. Or to you."

What a marvelous turning of the tables, Draco thought with pleasure. So the Chosen One had gotten precisely what he deserved for spending so many comfortable years as Dumbledore's pet, then. How many House Cups had Harry Potter undeservedly won before realizing the law hadn't applied to him, either? If Draco hadn't been intensely irritated, he might have laughed at the irony.

"What was the point of keeping him overnight, then? You both reek," Draco complained instead, briskly conjuring an enchantment for the smell. "If you wanted to avoid upsetting anyone, you might have at least sent him  _home_."

"Couldn't," Harry said, forcing the words through a broad yawn, "seeing as—"

Draco waited about a year for the insufferable yawn to end, tapping his foot impatiently.

"Seeing as," Harry exhaled, finally bothering to manage any coherence, "he was drunk."

"So?" Draco snapped. "He only gets worse when he's sober."

"I don't doubt it," Harry retorted, "but I'm an Auror, so according to my job descript-"

"Hey, Potter," Theo interrupted, and Draco watched Harry growl as he reflexively turned in response and then quickly tried to obscure the motion. "About that thing I told you earlier—"

"I've heard enough hilarious things from you," Harry told him, rubbing his eyelids below his glasses. "Next time," he grunted, "just stay home and get drunk in the cellar like a normal person, would you?"

"Well, that's not troubling at all," Theo remarked, delighted. "Is that what you do?"

"Please," Harry sighed, "just stop talking." He turned to Draco, gesturing over his shoulder. "If you can just take care of some paperw-"

"Well, since you won't discuss it with me, I'll have to just tell Draco," Theo informed him.

"I'd prefer it if you didn't," Harry said.

"Noted," Theo replied, "and also, immediately disregarded."

"Can we move this along, please?" Draco asked, suitably impatient. "I have to be at work in forty-five minutes."

"As do I," Harry mumbled, gesturing for Draco to sit. "Just fill out these two forms—sign here, initial here, and—"

"Interesting that this is what they have the Chosen One doing," Theo remarked, craning his neck to observe Harry's instructions from his chair. "Shouldn't you be out being beloved?" he posed, with the sort of maddening provocation only he possessed. "Abducting luckless dragons? Accidentally obliterating Dark Lords? Other narrow escapes?"

"—just the date here," Harry continued loudly, "and then on  _this_  page—"

Draco glanced down, catching a flash of Harry's wrist as he reached for a quill and observing, with a grimace, the presence of a glowing 49%.

"What?" Harry asked, catching Draco's glare and scowling. "Let me guess. Is the quill not good enough for you, Malfoy?" he prompted, with his usual holier-than-thou tone of righteous arrogance. "Because if you require a solid gold one you'll have to w-"

"Don't you have the fucking Weasley charm, Potter?" Draco retorted, and waved a hand in reference to his wrist, which he realized belatedly was obscured by his watch. "I'm simply further convinced of its idiocy," he said gruffly, adjusting it, "not that I have ever suspected otherwise."

"No, I don't," Harry said, returning his attention to the paperwork. "Anyway, as soon as we get these signed, we c-"

"What do you mean you don't?" Draco interrupted, encountering his first genuine surprise of the day, and perhaps even the week. "Didn't you and the she-Weasley split up over it?"

"See? This is what I was going to tell you," Theo said, cutting in before Harry could speak. "As I was saying, the hilarious th-"

"Ginny had the charm, not that it's any of your business," Harry muttered, not looking up from where he was signing his duplicate copies. "Personally, I continue to find it unnecessary."

"Yes, precisely," Theo said, "which, again, is why it's particularly entertaining—"

"Unnecessary is an understatement," Draco said.

"—that ours is one hundred percent. Anyway, you were signing unnecessary forms?" Theo mused, turning his attention innocently to Draco, who arched a brow in warning.

"You're clearly lying," Harry said without looking up. "Which, for the hundredth time, won't help you, Nott. I'm not going to drop the charges."

"After our magical night together you think I would  _lie_  to you? Don't be ridiculous," Theo sniffed, which Draco figured was an unwelcome taste of what sort of time Potter might have had with him. "However, if it  _were_  to persuade you in any particular direction—"

"I'm in enough trouble without your help," Harry said. "Just sign the papers and leave."

"Well, not to point out the obvious, but think how much faster we'd be out of here if there  _were_  no papers to sign—"

"Harry," came a voice at the door. "For heaven's sake, have you been here all night?"

* * *

Hermione had waited over twelve hours for Harry to get home from work, stewing in her misery through a frustrating silence broken only by three hours of fitful sleep and the occasional furious outburst to herself. Ron had moved out of Grimmauld Place shortly after their breakup, correctly citing the impractical nature of their awkward cohabitation, but Hermione continued to live there with Harry, who was in desperate need of a roommate. If not for her (and Kreacher, in part, but mostly her), she suspected his socks would never be suitably clean.

"Have you been here all night?" she demanded, barging into the Auror bullpen after bumping into a frazzled Percy Weasley down the hall, who for whatever inexplicable reason had insisted on asking her how she was despite their mutual disinterest in her answer. (Which, for the record, had been, "FINE. THANKS.")

"Harry, you were supposed to meet me for breakfast fifteen minutes ag-  _oh_ ," Hermione registered with a scowl, recognizing first Draco Malfoy, and then Theo Nott. "You, then."

"Yes, me, then," Draco mimicked in his usual condescending tone, still looking incredibly pointy and smug despite the multiple years and numerous hairstyling trends that had passed since they'd last encountered each other. "Thought you'd finally vanished from the face of the earth, Granger."

"No such luck," she replied tightly, glancing at Theo, who was grinning vacantly. "What?"

"Nothing," he said. "Still a little drunk, mostly."

"Unsurprising," Hermione judged, having already determined both of them to be monumental wastes of time. Both had returned to Hogwarts to take their N.E.W.T.s and had never been heard from following the exam, which for them was her preferred degree of interaction. Even Harry had done her the favor of scarcely mentioning Draco's name since their sixth year, at which point she assumed her careful Pavlovian conditioning (a smack with a newspaper, like a dog) had finally kicked in. "I take it neither of you have done anything noteworthy for the past three years, then?"

"Not true," Theo said. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"Not for a commendation," Harry reminded him, and then glanced up at Hermione, looking positively exhausted. "Sorry I forgot about breakfast," he said, adding with a glare at Theo, "I had to stay overnight."

Not his fault, then. Hermione softened a little, recalling that Harry's latest Auror duties—another reprimand under the guise of 'assignment'—included an unpleasant night watch near the border of Diagon and Knockturn, an area largely populated by derelicts and drunks. "Still?" she asked, concerned.

"It appears Dawlish does not feel I've made up for my mishap last month," Harry drily confirmed. "Can do coffee for about thirty minutes when I'm done here, if you like?"

"This is cute," Theo said, glancing between them. "Should we tell her?"

"No," Harry said firmly.

"Tell me what?" Hermione asked, frowning, and Draco Malfoy, of course, gave her a look of contemptuous impatience, probably unable to sustain his herculean effort at two minutes of non-derogatory silence.

"I'm sure you can guess it's total nonsense, like all of this has been," he informed her, finishing his signature with an ostentatious flourish and tossing the quill carelessly in Harry's direction. "Are we done here?"

As Draco stood, Hermione couldn't help looking for the number on his wrist; habit, by then, though for the sake of proper experimentation she hoped to see an appropriately harrowing valuation. To her annoyance, he was wearing a garish antique watch, obscuring the glowing number as he caught her looking with an arched brow of scoffery.

"Don't worry, Granger," he assured her, lazily flicking the face of his watch aside. "No need for an existential crisis. We're about as incompatible as anyone would expect."

The glowing percentage was an abysmal 18%.

Good.

"A bit high, actually," she informed him tightly. "I'll have to check in with George."

"Do that," Draco advised, rising to his feet and doing the annoying thing tall men always did, hovering in her space while she resolutely refused to budge. "Now," he said, giving her a particularly haughty smirk before turning to Harry, "are we done here?"

Harry slid a piece of parchment across his desk to Theo, who was idly marveling at the renewed use of his arms. "Stay out of trouble," he warned. "And don't let me catch you doing anything stupid again or next time, I promise you, I won't be so lenient."

"This is lenience?" Theo echoed doubtfully, gesturing to where Harry had recently undone the binding enchantment on his ankles. "Shall I expect a spanking for my second offense?"

"You think you're above the law, Nott, but you're not," Harry informed him, ignoring Theo's look of self-satisfaction and folding his arms over his chest. "It's about time you realized you can't get away with things just because you've got a vault full of gold."

"And a sparkling personality," Theo said, with all the spectacular irreverence a younger Harry might have stupidly dueled him for. "Don't forget that."

Draco rolled his eyes, yanking Theo to his feet. "Come on," he muttered gruffly, "we're going."

He shot Hermione a last look of distaste, prodding Theo out the door as she fell into the chair he'd vacated, summoning her notepad from her purse.

"18%," she told the enchanted quill, which gleefully scrawled as she'd requested, and then she frowned. "Rats, I forgot to check Nott's."

"You're still doing this?" Harry asked, half-laughing as Hermione shot him a look of  _yes, obviously, Harry James Potter, you can see perfectly well I'm still doing it and I won't hear another word from you on the subject._ "You can't actually believe you're compatible with Nott, can you?"

Certainly not. "I'm just collecting data," Hermione reminded him for the thousandth time, tucking her notepad and quill away, "and anyway, I've been waiting all night to talk to you."

To that, he managed to look apologetic. "Did you get the…?"

He trailed off, expectant, and grudgingly, she shook her head.

"They gave it to Padma," she said in a low voice, and Harry scraped a hand over his mouth with a grimace, sighing.

"Well, come on, then," he beckoned, rising to his feet to tuck an arm around her shoulders. "We'll plot their downfall over coffee."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes, I know, but there is a twist afoot: in the words of historical anti-hero Aaron Burr, WAIT FOR IT. Just an fyi, should you have any interest in mermaids, murder, illicit affairs, or the devil's patronage of his local public library, check out my other stuff on my website or tumblr. Thank you for reading; I'd like to resume the dedications I didn't have time for in my previous WIP, so this one is for my supportive pal shayalonnie, recent Masters of Death enthusiast/general hypeman deifiliaa, and Kattekwaad Aangevang, whose review made me laugh. Also, a ball of yarn for aurorarsinistra, without whom this wouldn't exist. Finally, the chapter title comes from Friends' resident sage, Chandler Bing: "I'm hopeless and awkward and desperate for love!"


	3. Be Alot Cooler If You Did

**Chapter 3: Be Alot Cooler If You Did**

_Three Days Later  
13 June 2002_

Hermione had of course been the height of grace when she accepted her promotion, not even emitting a single complaint when she was shown into the dusty office well on the other side of the building and several floors down from political news. She had every intention to shake Padma Patil's hand and congratulate her on her appointment—being the paragon of sportsmanship that Hermione so clearly was—but she had scarcely settled in (in fact, she was still coaxing her dittany seedling, a gift from Neville on her first day at the  _Prophet_ , which had wilted slightly from all the institutional lighting) before being informed by her editor, the too-chipper Halloran Meister Sherwood Dauntless, that her expertise was required elsewhere.

"Oh, yes, well, this is… lovely," Dauntless managed to say, half-stumbling over himself to raise a handkerchief to his face in poorly concealed disgust. "Marvelous improvement, isn't it? Vastly better than the savagery of the political bullpen upstairs, I'm sure—"

"The point, please, Sherwood," Hermione said without looking up from the dittany seedling, using the most interior and therefore brutally uncivil of his stupid three names.

"Yes, of course," Dauntless chirped, being at least 74% afraid of her and therefore beholden to the only percentage that presently mattered. (He had long been in her notepad as a loathsome and bewildering 46%.) "We were hoping you would cover the, er. The benefit concert this evening?" he asked, preemptively cowering as Hermione straightened from the potted dittany with a frown. "Perhaps you've heard about it? The, ah. Well, surely you know of Lily Moon—"

"The singer?" Or, more accurately, the Slytherin who'd gotten out of her O.W.L.s by virtue of some sort of rare strain of dragon pox and then popped up several years later pursuing a career as the next Celestina Warbeck, not that Hermione wished to rehash their entire history. She'd scarcely had a thought for Lily Moon over the past three years that wasn't, 'huh, so Lily Moon's not dead, then,' followed by 'Ronald, please desist staring at that poster of Lily Moon, people will think you're unhinged.'

Obviously, quite a lot had changed between then and now.

"Ah, so you know her," Dauntless said, looking relieved in a way that made Hermione want to curse the webbing of his toes or collapse part of the ceiling above him, lest he ever feel so foolishly safe from her enmity again. She didn't, of course (courteous as always) and he continued, "Excellent, then you'll conduct the interview with her for tomorrow's cover story. I believe The Gobstones are also scheduled to perform as the evening's opening act, so—"

"Wait, the assignment is an interview with Lily Moon?" Hermione echoed, stifling a rush of unpleasantness.  _Pop culture_ , honestly. Every time she thought she'd recovered from the slight of being pushed into intellectual obscurity, she felt a new, crippling wave of loathing.

"Yes," Dauntless said with relish, deciding to live in a fantasy world where he could interpret her tartness for pleasure, "and if you can swing it, with Bastien Queensbury as well. One of The Gobstones, as I'm sure you know. Astounding how well the lad can sell papers," he remarked, somewhat dreamily. "Though, if I had his hair—"

"But the Wizengamot is voting this evening on a new wave of post-war taxation policies," Hermione said, mildly infuriated. To think, five minutes had already gone by with each breath of it thoroughly wasted on the subject of popstars and boy bands. "The  _Prophet_  would rather run a silly fluff piece about Lily Moon? Don't you think its constituents have somewhat weightier concerns?"

"Well—" Dauntless looked pained. "There will be quite a long piece on the subject of taxation, of course. Patil is already getting t… well, the point is it's covered," he coughed into his hand, backing hastily away. "So I'll just owl you that press badge, then, shall I? Moon's people know to expect you after her set, so tallyho, carry on, best of luck—"

It seemed pointless to argue, and anyway, she'd have had to chase him into the corridor at the pace he was racing away, which would have been undignified. Instead, Hermione let out a heavy sigh, falling into her desk chair (personally charmed, of course, for maximum lumbar support; she'd looked a bit unseemly dragging it into the lift from her previous desk, but it had been worth it) and wrote out a message for Harry.

_Be out late this evening, feel free to have supper without me. Hoping Dawlish doesn't keep you on patrol so late this time! Meet for breakfast in the morning? xx HJG_

Luckily, her office contained a battered but usable Floo access, through which she charmed her note to Harry in the shape of a small paper crane. It returned to her shortly afterwards as a messily-constructed arrow, piercing the cover of her  _Fauntleroy's Elements of Style_  just after she'd placed it on her rickety bookcase.

_I've got the midnight Knockturn beat yet again—make it coffee in the AM. yours in constant vigilance, HJP_

Hermione sighed, taking a moment to pity them both (would she have preferred a horcrux hunt and a tent? Sometimes, yes) before finishing up the preparations in her office. With what little experience Hermione had with concerts—the only one she'd attended having been a Celestina Warbeck Christmas show that Molly had dragged them to when she and Ron had still been dating—she decided it was best to arrive early, wrapping up her cursory research about Lily Moon and heading out the door.

"Have a lovely afternoon, Gladys," Hermione said to her receptionist, who was not much use at all, though extremely difficult to get rid of. Hermione supposed what appeared to be a valuable administrative position was technically an amiable haunting, as Gladys had fallen asleep at her desk thirty years ago and woken to simply continue her scheduling tasks, but there were very few policies regulating employment contracts when it came to office-related afterlives. That, Hermione supposed, was Padma's job to investigate now, and soured slightly at the reminder.

"Goodbye, Herbert," Gladys croaked. "Will you be requiring anything else, Sir?"

"No, thank you," Hermione said, a bit concerned what Gladys might have meant, considering she seemed to have confused Hermione for a male employer with something of a lechery problem. "If any owls come while I'm out, feel free to transcribe the messages and leave them on my desk."

"Shall I tell your wife where you've gone?" Gladys asked, suspicious.

"I'm sure I can tell her myself," Hermione said firmly, resuming her path to the better-lit portions of the  _Daily Prophet_  offices and proceeding to the concert venue.

She was stopped in the foyer, however, when she noticed a familiar glint of red hair, holding her breath and hoping it was any of Ron's brothers—or even his  _mother_ , which was quite a dire hope indeed—rather than Ron himself. It was always so very confusing to be around Ron these days; on the one hand, Hermione missed his company quite a lot, but on the other, his presence seemed a bit… mocking. Perhaps that was merely her deflection when it came to their strained interactions, but it wasn't without just cause. Ron hadn't been especially pleased when she first voiced her concerns over their compatibility, and had blamed her in a tantrum that was nearly on par with the Crookshanks Debacle of 1993.

Nevermind that she had been right then, too.

It seemed as if every day Hermione went without the boast of some new paramour, Ron became increasingly smug. He had developed a new and upsetting expression of swaggery—a freckly bit of,  _See? I told you so_ —that Hermione found crucially irritating. It was clear Ron continued to find her concerns ridiculous despite her numerous pages of research and the various charts of data she had collected on George's findings (which, by the way, George had foolishly omitted from his presentation, for reasons she couldn't possibly imagine). In the end, Hermione simply couldn't stomach it. Ron was clearly waiting for her to admit her faults and come crawling back to him, and if there was one thing she hated to be, it was wrong.

Which she wasn't.

In more recent times, Hermione had successfully managed to avoid seeing Ron for an entire month, feigning ill when he and Harry met up for their weekly recreational quidditch league or being conveniently out of the house by the time Ron stopped by before work. Somewhere, she was sure, some law of post-relationship quantum gravity suggested she was overdue for an unpleasant altercation, and thus, she was relieved to discover upon second glance that it was actually Percy Weasley and not his younger brother in the foyer; appearing, as Percy often did, quite lost.

Having been blessed by the universe for another day, Hermione approached Percy with a bit more patience than she'd spared him in the Ministry corridor the last time she'd seen him.

"Looking for something?" she asked, and Percy jumped, startled for some reason at her presence as if he had somehow managed not to see her coming from several feet away.

"Oh yes, I… hello," he said, awkward as ever. "Miss Granger, what a pleasure. How are you?"

She and Percy had never been particularly close, given his rift with the rest of the Weasleys. Even prior to the war, they had always differed hotly on multiple topics of academic and political concern (most of which Ron hadn't even understood, instead letting his attention wander to the ceiling or to a sudden, mysterious need to help Ginny with the gnomes) and the two of them had tended to avoid each other since.

Still, at least his manners were better than Ron's. "I'm fine, thank you. Did you need something, Percy?"

"Oh, yes, actually, um—"

Percy reached up to beckon to the quill floating beside his diary. As he did so, Hermione's Pavlovian reflexes led her to catch a happenstantial glimpse of the inside of his wrist.

"—ah yes, here we are. Doge gave me the office number last week when we scheduled the meeting," Percy sighed, nudging his glasses further up on his nose as he frowned down at the page, "but for whatever reason, I've just been wandering in circles looking for it—"

"Didn't you hear Doge retired?" Hermione asked him vacantly, feeling a little jolt as she registered the percentage on his wrist.

92%. How had she never noticed that before? She supposed they didn't often speak to one another, and certainly she wouldn't have paid him much attention even if they had. It was purely coincidence she happened to notice, and while Hermione wasn't a believer in fate, she did strongly value probability. Chance was nothing to dismiss, and neither was a percentage like that.

She blinked, re-focusing as she caught Percy's frown of bemusement at her reply. "Oh, I'm afraid Doge might have played a bit of a trick on you," she lamented, returning her attention to the former Chief Ministry Correspondent's usual disappearing office tactic, which he had often employed when it came to negative reviews and annoying politicians. Or, in this case, an annoying bureaucrat. "You'll want to speak to Padma Patil, on the thirteenth floor."

"Oh." Percy's brow furrowed beneath his spectacles, which were actually quite nice on him; unlike Harry's glasses, Percy's were refined, un-crooked, and fastidiously maintained. Had he used a charm to keep the lenses so free of ungainly smudges? It certainly appeared so, and if he had, it might have been a custom enchantment, which was impressive. In Hermione's opinion, people regularly overlooked the difficulty of small household charms, which was why they were so often ill-kempt. True, Percy had blue eyes very like Ron's, but overall he looked a bit more like Bill, who was… Well, even Harry considered Bill attractive, Hermione recalled with an inward laugh, so that was certainly something.

Percy's face, upon closer inspection, was actually quite pleasing. Symmetrical. In fact, if he were any less squinty with dismay at realizing Doge was a slippery little bastard who'd retired rather than speak with him, Hermione thought perhaps Percy Weasley might be quite handsome. He'd had girlfriends at Hogwarts, hadn't he? She recalled Percy had been with Penelope Clearwater for a number of years, and Penelope was certainly no field mouse.

"Well, that's… hm." Percy distractedly ran a hand through his hair, which was remarkably full. No male-pattern balding or receding hairlines to speak of. Genetically speaking, very promising; that his hair happened to be red wasn't ideal, but was also mostly inoffensive, and anyway, it was probably a recessive trait. "I suppose I should—"

"Percy," Hermione interrupted, deciding to be spontaneous. "Is there any chance you'd like to have dinner with me this evening?"

Percy's blue eyes fixed on her with such intense deliberation she thought to ask him for a moment if he was in pain.

"You want," he began uncertainly, "to have dinner with… me?"

"If you've no other plans," Hermione said with a shrug, determining it a mostly harmless offer. "I suppose we could do with some catching up, couldn't we?"

"Catching up." His wary reply felt more than a little bit redundant. "I… well, I don't…" He shifted uncomfortably. "You and Ronald—"

"We've been broken up for ages," Hermione reminded him, determined not to bristle at the mention of Ron's name. "And anyway, what's the harm in one dinner? I'm sure Ron won't mind, and seeing as you're clearly here to speak with someone at the  _Daily Prophet_ …"

She trailed off with a reference to her press badge, letting him fill in his own conclusions to avoid having to confess aloud that she specialized in total inanity rather than important work, like politics or even—(shudder to think it, but still)—creative nonfiction.

"Ah. Well." Percy gave her something between a smile and a grimace. "I suppose nothing too traumatic could come from one dinner, could it?"

He seemed to be asking aloud as if some invisible third party might give him a suitable answer, but as far as Hermione was concerned, that was as good as a date.

"Certainly not," Hermione agreed, pleased. "I'll send an owl when I'm done with my interview this evening. A late dinner, in Diagon?" she prompted, and when he opened his mouth to confirm, she declared, "Wonderful. See you then!" she called over her shoulder, bursting through the  _Daily Prophet_  doors and inhaling the scent of possibility, ripe on the early summer breeze.

* * *

Draco had unwisely permitted himself to be talked into lunch with Theo, which still somehow managed to be a promising reprieve from a morning spent un-contaminating a local water source. (Some upstart youths, it seemed, had found it positively hysterical to flood their neighbors' homes with giggle potion. They happened to be correct in their hypothesis, as Draco noted in the report, though only in a very literal sense.) Given that he had little choice but to assume his afternoon would be equally filled with fatuity, he agreed to meet Theo at a small pub on the edge of Diagon and Knockturn, picking his way through the throngs of delinquents and transients to find Theo sunning himself from one of the cramped clusters of tables outside, sunglasses sitting low on his nose.

"This," Draco said, throwing himself into the seat opposite Theo's, "is not what I thought you meant by an afternoon of fine dining."

"Did I say that?" Theo drawled in reply, listlessly draping one long leg over the other before dismissing Draco with a wave of his hand, rings glittering in the too-bright sun. "Hm. Perhaps I was temporarily on leave from my senses."

"What, then or now?" Draco asked, glancing around in disgust. "What is this, patio furniture?"

"Well, none of the wicker chaises were available," Theo replied, dropping his sunglasses further and sitting upright to inspect the ale-stained menu sitting before him. "What do you think, a little agua fresca?" he mused. "Some ceviche, perhaps?"

"This place is called The Rutting Bull, Nott. I hardly think I can expect my agua to be anything remotely close to fresca." Still, better this than some other village teeming with miscreant wizard children, Draco reminded himself, adjusting his tie. He typically charmed it to rest crisply against his shirt (an enchantment he'd refined after years of inadequate Hogwarts wool-blends) but given the morning he'd already subjected it to, he didn't trust the silk not to dive away in protest.

"It's called  _transfiguration_ , you patrician cow," Theo sniffed, glancing up at the arrival of their waitress. "Yes, hello, we'll take the scotch eggs, two whiskies, and a plate of…" He scanned the menu doubtfully, determining with unrepressed disdain, "chips."

The waitress replied with a disinterested shrug, loafing away as Theo gave a lamentful sigh, nudging the sunglasses up on his nose.

"If you find everything here so reprehensible, Nott, there are far better places we could go," Draco reminded him, politely waiting until the waitress was out of earshot before demeaning her establishment with a grimace. In his experience, it was best not to invite malice when it came to the bearer of something he planned to ingest, even if he expected to do so grudgingly and without enjoyment. "Was this necessary?"

"Yes," Theo said, adding, "You know what they say."

"Which they, might I ask?"

" _They_ , Draco,  _they_. Location, location, location," Theo answered himself, "or, more accurately, position, position, position."

"Are you planning to invest in real estate?" Draco asked him drily, as the waitress returned with their whiskies.

Theo reached over, sniffing the glasses, and then, with a wary frown, tossed the whiskies over his shoulder into the nearby flowerbeds, flicking open the hinge of his fourth-finger ring. He poured out some vibrant enchanted substance, the source of which Draco did not know or care to ask, and slid the glass back to Draco.

"No," Theo said, finally deigning to answer the question. "Though, I can only assume I'd make a fine landlord."

"Why are we here, then?" Draco asked, raising the glass to his lips. It was clearly something of Theo's making, which meant another sip was out of the question. He coughed on the fumes of it, sputtering, "Please tell me this isn't about—"

"It's a  _red mark_ , Draco," Theo replied, downing half the contents of his glass in a single swallow as he referenced his recent run-in with certain Aurors who were Too Frequently (and too reverently) Named. "A stain on my pristine reputation."

"Your reputation is about as pristine as this is a legal substance," Draco sniffed, tapping the lip of his glass. "And you know as well as I do, Nott, I have no issue with you tormenting Harry Potter, but at least do it with some class. Or, if you're going to involve me, then do it at a venue with fewer," he began, and glanced around, grimacing again. "Elements."

"Easier this way," Theo said, shrugging. "Weasley already passed by with Dawlish," he explained, gesturing to the streams of people who had been trickling ambivalently past the pub, paying them no attention. "Apparently Potter's been relegated to the midnight watch."

"What on earth for?" Draco scoffed. "Even with so much inadequacy at stake it's hard to imagine Weasley being the preferable choice," he muttered, considering another sip of Theo's ungodly concoction before frowning, perturbed. "And if you know Potter's not going to be here until later this evening, what exactly are we doing here now?"

"Well, it appears we're not the only untouchables Potter's gone after in the last month," Theo remarked. "Evidently Dawlish finds his performance as an Auror to be… unsatisfying," he determined after a moment, "though of course they can hardly sack the savior of the wizarding world, can they? If you ask me the department's trying to sweat him out, like some sort of morally righteous fever. And as for your second question," he offered, draining the rest of his glass with his usual lofty indication of  _you'll get an answer when I'm good and ready_ , "surely you're aware the proper degree of 'disorderly' befitting my position is not something I can accomplish without adequate preparation. You know me, Draco. Can't abide a job half-done. Are you going to finish that?" Theo asked tangentially, gesturing to Draco's glass, and he rolled his eyes, nudging it forward.

"That's a lot of information you seem to have gathered about Potter over the last three days," Draco observed, watching Theo's fingers close around his glass. "Is this your latest fixation, then?"

"Fixation? No. It is, however, a marvelous hobby," Theo said. "You know how I like to keep myself busy with whimsical pursuits."

"Quite a bit of work though, isn't it? Intentional debauchery?" Draco asked him. "Usually you reserve your sinful tendencies for purposes of recreation."

"Well, I'm trying new things, Draco," Theo said. "It's called personal development, not that I'd expect you to know."

"Hang on. You're saying that I, the only employed person present, am incapable of recognizing growth?" Draco asked him, as Theo shrugged; ostensible confirmation. "And that is quite a charitable statement to begin with, mind you," Draco added, "as it declines to mention the obvious caveat that this is not remotely growth at all."

"You know, Malfoy, it's that sort of ornery unpleasantness which accounts for our incompatible half," Theo replied with a wag of his finger, and Draco, not wanting to be reminded that he could very well end his life with Theo Nott given the way everything was going, grudgingly allowed himself to be silenced.

Coincidentally, the waitress arrived a moment later with their scotch eggs and a pile of chips, which Theo waved a hand over the moment the plates met the table. In an instant, they were, as promised, a plate of ceviche, overflowing with fresh avocado and shrimp, beside which a basket of tortilla chips sprouted from something that looked suspiciously like woven gold.

"Thanks," Theo informed the waitress, sparing her the sort of smile that said he was planning to get arrested later, and Draco sighed, leaning forward to rest his arms atop the table as she waddled dispassionately away.

"You  _were_  lying, weren't you? About your compatibility with Potter," Draco clarified, and Theo made a very Theo noise of confirmation, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh to land approximately near  _Why, Mr Malfoy, surely you can't be serious_.

"Of course. But the fact remains that I am a plague of which Potter is richly deserving," Theo replied, and while Draco thought it perhaps reasonable to point out that was still not a particularly good use of one's time, he remembered at the last second he was not dealing with someone whose time had many alternate expenditures.

Besides, before he could reply, Theo had already removed something from the inner lining of his pocket. "I don't suppose you want these, do you?" he asked Draco, sliding them across the table. "Zabini invited us to the Lily Moon benefit concert this evening, but I, of course"—a wave of a glinting hand in reference to the patio—"have other plans."

"Is Lily Moon still a thing?" Draco asked, glancing skeptically at the tickets. "I thought surely people would have noticed by now that her voice is wholly unremarkable."

"Oh, she's an atrocity live," Theo agreed, "but still, the tickets are difficult to acquire, or so Blaise assured me when he sent them along. Though, I can only assume he needs someone of our desirable repute to make an appearance for publicity purposes."

"Hm." Draco gave the tickets another long, surveying glance. "You expect me to go by myself, I suppose?"

"Don't you have some sort of inamorata these days?" Theo asked, and before he could stop himself, Draco grimaced. "Ah," Theo murmured, judging correctly that in this case, Draco's expression meant his most recent valuation of 44% had not been enough to secure the blush of romance for long. It certainly hadn't been enough to keep this  _particular_  blush from conveniently running into her estranged childhood sweetheart and deciding to move to Berlin to be with him on the basis of hormones (Draco assumed) in addition to their 95% match.

"Pansy, then," Theo suggested, sparing Draco the discomfiture of detail.

"I suppose." Pansy was, in order: a talented bedmate, a moderately adequate friend, and a horrific girlfriend, even for an evening. She was a woman requiring significant pampering, which accounted for one of Draco's top five rules for preserving casual relationships: never have sex with a woman whose non-carnal needs he felt obligated to meet. "Not ideal."

"Well, going alone wouldn't be the worst thing. Wasn't Lily Moon your first after-hours tryst?" Theo asked, chuckling with an air of already knowing the answer, and Draco shot him a silencing glare. "What? I'm just  _saying_ , surely the encounter would bring back only the finest strands of gawky adolescence. Ah, to be thirteen and discovering one's blond virility," he sighed facetiously. "Vats of that young Sacred Twenty-Eight blood rushing to the most godless of places, pale mouths suctioning with ardor—"

At that precise moment, thankfully, an owl perched on the edge of the table, giving a small, dignified squawk for Draco's attention.

"Ah, magnificent," Draco muttered with relief (blessed escape from Theo's unholy narration, at least) and also annoyance, reaching for what could have only been his next magical accident. "Duty calls, then."

"No go on the tickets, I take it?" Theo guessed, piling ceviche onto a tortilla chip.

_DM: your attention requested at the address below in Surrey. Mild explosion; bring face mask and snail repellent. Cheers!_

"No go," Draco confirmed, suddenly too exhausted by the prospect of his afternoon to even consider the possibility of socializing that evening. "Best of luck torturing Potter," he offered as a parting benediction, rising to his feet and tossing down a spare handful of galleons.

"Don't need luck. Raw talent will suffice," Theo assured him, popping a shrimp into his mouth and finishing the last of Draco's glass as Draco turned away with a shake of his head, disapparating back to the office to fetch his requested mask.

* * *

The members of the alt-rock wizarding band called The Gobstones included not only Dauntless' apparent idol Bastien Queensbury, whose carefully curated errant curl of brown-black spilled into his forehead with enough charisma to make fourteen teenage girls in Hermione's proximity swoon, but also Nigel Wroxton (tall, bass, bottom half of shirt shredded into bits), Gareth Pewsey (slightly shorter, drums, sleeves forcefully removed from shirt), and Arman Shettigar (average height, lead guitar, shirtless). Altogether they were a sight, and had Hermione any interest in them at all, she might have thought to ask Bastien why he felt it necessary to wear a satin blazer with tuxedo trousers if he did not intend to pair his formalwear with any other articles of clothing. She assumed the answer would have been "so as to better accent my crystal," which she did not foresee contributing to any sort of informative exposé.

Lily Moon, a remarkably waifish blonde who did not look as if she and Hermione could have possibly received the same education, seemed equally unimpressed by the presence of The Gobstones, which was a relief. She beckoned Hermione into her dressing room without so much as a word, relying on her staff to either predict her needs or read her mind as they hurried in their wake.

"Bastien's being a pill," were the first words out of Lily's mouth before Hermione could say anything, having settled herself awkwardly on a powder-blue sofa beside the eruption of Lily's flower-covered vanity. "Will someone get these out of here?"

That remark was directed at the nervous-looking man Hermione took to be Lily's manager, who quickly hurried away with the largest vase of fresh roses.

"Sorry," Lily said, sparing Hermione something of a tired glance. "I try not to encourage him."

Foggily, Hermione was aware Lily Moon and Bastien Queensbury had once dated. It was certainly not something she had committed to memory in any detail, but had instead accidentally observed from the cover of Molly Weasley's  _Witch Weekly_  during one of her early visits. It occurred to Hermione that knowing similar details of petty inconsequence was now her entire job, and she grimaced, which Lily took to be a sign of sympathy.

"It  _seems_  nice, you know," Lily said. "The flowers and such."

His band's lead single, too, or so the rumors suggested. "Isn't it?" asked Hermione, who had never received neither flowers nor love songs while she'd been dating Ron and certainly hadn't since they'd broken up.

"Well, it's just…" Lily grimaced. "Nevermind. Don't print that, please," she asked Hermione, who dutifully made a small motion to her quill.

"Truthfully, I don't see how flowers from your ex-boyfriend could possibly be considered pertinent," Hermione assured her, removing the excerpt of conversation from her transcripts. "Better, I think, to focus on something more relevant. For example, do you have any thoughts on the Wizengamot's taxation bills?"

"I'm terribly relieved you thought to ask her that," Percy said later, once Hermione had escaped the drudgery of popstar interviews and made it to dinner just before the respectable kitchens in Diagon closed and they were forced to go somewhere barbaric, like The Rutting Bull. "Public figures like Lily Moon have quite a broad audience, you know. It baffles me why musicians aren't more informed on current events."

After an awkward start, conversation between Percy and Hermione had been a delight, though that was really no surprise. 92%, after all, was a vast improvement on 80%. (And that wasn't even to address the issue of  _Ron's_  compatibility score—after all, how could Hermione have been expected to stay with him in good conscience when she was obviously so much better suited to his brother? Surely he would thank her for her clarity, someday.)

"Well, she hedged a bit," Hermione admitted, thinking back to Lily's ambiguous response before the interview had gradually turned to the subject of her album's UK tour. "Still, I thought it worth discussing. I certainly don't see how else the topic is going to get the coverage it merits in tomorrow's  _DP_ otherwise _._ "

"I'm sure Miss Patil has plans to address it somewhere," Percy said, cutting into his steak as Hermione bristled at the reference to her colleague. Perhaps a lesser woman might have thought of Padma Patil as a rival or even a nemesis, but Hermione was, of course, not one of those. "Hm," Percy remarked with a furrowed brow at his dinner, "still a bit rare—"

"You were able to speak to Padma, then?" she asked him, schooling her voice into something passably neutral. "I rather thought she'd be booked for the day, given the suddenness of her promotion." That, along with what a lesser woman might have called its generally unmerited appointment.

"Actually, she was quite busy," Percy admitted, "but just after you left, Ronald arrived."

For the life of her, Hermione couldn't see how those statements were possibly related. "Ron, really?" she asked, ascertaining that she did, indeed, sound extremely normal as she began cutting into her filet mignon.

"Well, I'm sure you would know better than I would, but it was certainly a surprise to me," Percy said, giving his meal another scrutinizing look of opposition. "Ronald and I are hardly close but still, you'd think he'd mention it, seeing as we  _do_  work in the same wing of the Ministr-"

"Is he changing jobs?" Hermione asked, though the idea that Ron might suddenly take up a career in journalism was utterly laughable. True, she'd initially laughed at the idea of him as an Auror, too, but even the prospect of Ron submitting himself to danger on purpose made much more sense than his joining the  _Prophet_. After all, she knew better than anyone that he'd never enjoyed writing at school. "Did something happen at the DMLE?" Hermione asked, as only some sort of conflict within the Auror's office could force Ron into what was surely his worst nightmare, even amid all his other irrational fears.

She continued the mindless task of slicing, theorizing Ron's possible motives. There was, of course, the distinct possibility he was still trying to subtly persuade her back to him, which was certainly within his playbook of passive-aggressive behavior. (See also: The Yule Ball, 1994.)

"Hm? Oh, I doubt it," Percy said. "I believe he was meeting Miss Patil for a late lunch. How is yours?" he asked her, frowning over at her steak. "I could fix it myself but of course that would be quite rude, wouldn't it?"

"Oh, I don't know," Hermione said, having diced her steak into tiny pieces by then as she contemplated the incomprehensible clues Percy was feeding her. "You said he was visiting Padma? Was he asking her about me?"

"I really have no idea," Percy said, sounding bemused. "I didn't ask about their intended topics of discussion. I often try, you know, just for purposes of conversation, but I find people rarely entertain my efforts to facilit-"

"I have to assume they were," Hermione said with a frown. "Maybe he knows she got the Correspondent position over me," she murmured to herself, feeling a little miffed that Harry might have told him. "Though I don't see what he could possibly do about it."

"Oh, I believe he knows," Percy replied, having made the decision to cough a spell quietly under his breath. "He did arrive with some sort of pastry in hand," he continued, resuming the position of his fork, "so I assumed it was a celebratory occasion."

"What, like a cake?" Now that was baffling. Ron, for all he insisted otherwise, was an abomination in the kitchen. "For who?"

By that point, Percy seemed increasingly distracted, busying himself first with the placement of his steak on his plate and then, subsequently, with cutting it. "Hm?"

"Who did he bring it for?" Hermione repeated, remembering with a sinking feeling that if Harry had mentioned Padma's promotion, he had probably mentioned her own, too. Suddenly, Hermione felt a brush of irritation akin to the look on Lily Moon's face upon spotting the flowers from Bastien Queensbury. "If he thinks he can just win me back by bringing me things, he has quite another thing coming," she scoffed under her breath, and then glanced up at Percy, who was furiously avoiding her gaze. "Percy," she said, frowning at his odd behavior as he quickly shoved his fork into his mouth, holding up a finger for pause. "Is everything alright?"

He seemed to shovel at least two more bites into his mouth, which was… unusual, to say the least. Typically his sense of decorum outweighed everything else, though she supposed it was quite late. Perhaps he was merely hungry.

"Percy—" She broke off, resting a hand on his wrist to stop him from cutting himself another piece. "What's going on?" she demanded, and this time, Percy looked as if he might have preferred to choke on his mouthful of food rather than answer, but he forced a heavy swallow.

"My apologies," he said, still not looking at her. "I thought you knew."

That, Hermione thought, was not  _at all_  the beginning of a satisfactory answer.

"Knew what?" she asked, fixing her attention on the comforting 92% that glowed from Percy's wrist and wondering if it were only in her head that everything sounded so strange, as if they were suddenly immersed in water.

"I believe Ronald has been dating Miss Patil for the last month," Percy said, his voice alternately drowning out and emerging from a high-pitched, ringing sort of sound. After a moment to let the pressure in her head subside, Hermione took a long, slow breath, reaching calmly for her glass.

"Well, isn't that nice," she said, and at the table next to theirs, an elderly woman let out a yelp as her créme brûlée burst into flames.

* * *

Draco had been enjoying a lovely bottle of Chateau Lafite to pair with his usual evening of quiet insomnia and a nice camembert when the translucent stag came bounding in a second time, disrupting the pages of his book and warping, just slightly, the edges of his placid tranquility.

"Malfoy," came a growling version of Harry Potter's voice, "Nott's here. I'd tell you to come get him now—"

"Nope," Draco said, not looking up from the page as he took a sip of wine. "Shan't."

"—only I'm assuming you won't, so. Come by in the morning—"

"Eh," Draco said, turning the page. "Persuade me."

"—and for the record, I don't really care if it's convenient for you, since it certainly isn't for me. If you and Nott aren't going to take this seriously, I'll be forced to submit the case to the department for prosecution this time—"

"Nah," Draco murmured. "You won't."

"—but seeing as that would be a spectacular headache for absolutely everyone involved, I'd prefer it if I could just release Nott into your custody and then maybe, just maybe, one or both of you can manage to keep him from being a hellish prick in the future. Understood?"

As the question had been posed rhetorically, Draco didn't bother to answer.

"Good. See you in the morning." With that, the stag disappeared, and further down the hall, Draco heard the sound of the Floo roaring to life.

"Draco, are you home?"

Pansy's voice. It seemed there would be no further peace this evening.

"I'm sleeping," Draco called back, turning the page and taking another sip. This, of course, would not have stopped Pansy even on a good day, and it did not surprise him when she burst into the kitchen without even a trace of acknowledgement, pouring herself a glass of wine and raising it without hesitation to her lips.

"Well," she said, "for reasons I have no intention to explain, I'm going to need you to fuck me until I've forgotten almost every relevant detail about my life, most specifically this entire shit-laden week."

"Sounds healthy," Draco said. "Camembert?"

"Please," Pansy replied, and he slid the plate across the table to her as she collapsed in the seat beside him, morose. "You're not allowed to ask me any questions, by the way," she informed him. "You're just going to put your cock in me from a variety of strenuous positions in relative silence until I tell you explicitly to stop."

"Ah," Draco said. "I see."

Pansy lifted her glass, sighing in something that appeared to be frustration, and then took a long, probably overindulgent sip.

"The thing is," she said, "I met someone."

Under other circumstances, Draco would not have been so willing to entertain the prospect of conversation during an evening he had so obviously reserved for himself. However, as listening did not require him to perform any manual labor and potentially allowed for him to continue reading his book, Draco nodded.

"The problem is I loathe him," Pansy continued.

"You loathe everyone," Draco reminded her, and she sighed again, loudly.

"Yes, but this is different. I  _loathe_  him, really and truly, and for some reason he's—" She scowled, lifting her glass to her lips. "97% compatible with me."

At that, Draco glanced up sharply. "Don't tell me that matters to you now, too."

"Of course not," Pansy scoffed, though her fingers were visibly tight around the stem of her glass. "Not at all."

He waited.

"But," she said, chewing her lip as she eyed her glass, "say that I found him… reasonably attractive. And possibly a bit… charming. Not conventionally charming," she hurried to clarify, "because you know I hate the drudgery of dealing with so many self-satisfied imbeciles, but say he…" Another pause. "Say it's more that he  _intrigues_ me. And say he's not a total idiot. You know, the way all other men are just… completely and woefully incompetent."

"None taken," Draco said, which Pansy ignored.

"But say when I left, I told him I never wanted to speak to him again and in fact, I said I hoped his entire family came down with consumptive influenza."

"Not a real disease, but go on."

"And say," Pansy pressed on, "he told me that if I were really as smart as I thought I was, I'd do something about my current predicament aside from sitting by and letting a man without an ounce of my abilities rule over the rest of my life."

"Well, that's—" Draco broke off, frowning. "Wait, what?"

"And say I thought about slapping him or, alternatively, fucking him into the floor, but then say in reality I was so furious and astounded that I did neither of those things," Pansy said, beginning to look a bit distressed, "and instead, I saw him tonight having dinner with someone else across the restaurant where I was being bored into my grave by another insipid choice of my father's, and  _then_  say it occurred to me that if I don't ever speak to him again I might, in fact, die?"

Draco began to suspect he was losing the thread of conversation. "Pans, I don't think—"

"Well, he's right, isn't he?" Pansy said, launching abruptly to her feet. "I  _have_  been sitting in the background of my life for too long."

"Pansy, I don't underst-"

"I'm going to tell him right now that he can go and hang," she declared, and then stopped short, her expression hardening. "No. No, I won't give him the satisfaction." She drained the rest of her glass, giving Draco a long, furious look. "I can't fuck you right now," she informed him, "as I'm terribly busy. I have to come up with a plan for maximum emotional distress."

"No, stop, don't go," Draco said, pointedly flipping the page of his book, and she curled one hand into a fist.

"STOP TRYING TO CONTROL ME," she told him, before stomping in the direction of his Floo and disappearing, leaving him to enjoy what remained of his evening in solitude before making his way to the Ministry.

Draco passed a variety of newspaper stands—the headline  _LILY MOON SELLS OUT FIRST NIGHT OF UK TOUR_  blasted from the front page, which almost certainly hid a far more upsetting story about post-war taxation below the fold—as he went, picking up a takeaway coffee and arriving ten minutes after eight to find voices emanating from inside the Auror office.

"—n't tell me, can you believe it? Did  _you_  know?"

It sounded like mild hysteria, which was what Draco assumed Hermione Granger's voice always sounded like. He grimaced, recognizing the sound of her less-than-dulcet tones, but forced himself inside anyway, assuming (incorrectly) that she possessed enough presence of mind not to continue shrieking in his presence.

"—sorry, Hermione, I swear I didn't know. Listen, Ron and I don't really talk anymore either, outside of quidditch—"

"You work in the same office!"

"Barely," came Theo's gleeful voice. "Isn't that right, Potter?"

"Nott, I beg you, shut up. And Hermione, I'm telling you the truth," Harry said, sounding exhausted. "I agree, he should have said something, but I really didn't know. Maybe it's not serious, and—Oh, for fuck's sake," he said, spotting Draco in the doorway. "Malfoy, you're ten minutes late!"

"Twelve, actually," Draco replied with a glance at his watch, and then dropped his sunglasses to arch a brow at Theo, who was once again magically bound in place. "Was it worth it?"

"It certainly wasn't not," Theo said, gesturing with triumph to a frazzled and obviously sleep-deprived Boy Who Lived, and who was also currently the Boy Who Desperately Needed to Shower.

"Look, Hermione, just give me a couple of minutes, okay? We can do coffee as soon as I get these sign- fuck," Harry exhaled, rubbing at his eyes as he discovered his files empty. "Just… stay here, okay? I'll be right back," he told her, glancing at Theo. "And as for you—"

"Don't worry," Theo assured him. "I've devoted my efforts exclusively to your personal misery and haven't the time to inflict them on anyone else."

"Great, appreciate it," Harry said, jogging away as Draco rolled his eyes, falling into the vacant chair and giving Hermione a lengthy once-over.

She looked better than she had at Hogwarts, though that hardly required much to qualify for improvement. The lack of books was already helpful, as her primary aesthetic problem had always been her posture. Without that, she seemed… well, she seemed irate, really. He could hardly consider it a complimentary observation, but for what it was worth, rage wasn't an unpleasant color on her. Even with her hair pulled back and without even a speck of beauty charms or makeup, she remained not entirely unpretty.

"What?" she snapped, catching his glance and giving him one of those ball-shriveling glares she was so fond of doling out in excess.

"Nothing," he said, souring. For fun, and for lack of a better alibi, he directed his attention to her wrist. "Just admiring our atrocious 19%, that's all. Not to mention the fact that you're  _clearly_  still upset about Weasley," he registered, locating a sensitive spot in her hardened exterior and exulting in her instant fury. "You know what they say, Granger. You can't expect the ugly duckling to turn into a swan just because you ask it nicely."

"Nobody says that, Malfoy, and I wasn- wait." She stopped short, pivoting towards him so rapidly Draco had half a mind to back away from her. "Did you say 19%?"

"I'm not part of this," Theo lamented to himself, glancing piteously in the direction Harry had gone. "POTTER," he bellowed, while Hermione, for reasons completely unknowable, yanked unexpectedly at Draco's wrist, shoving his watch brusquely to the side and nearly overturning his coffee.

"Ouch, Granger, what the f-"

"Oh my god. Oh my god." She seemed suddenly overcome with madness, or something very like it. "This… this says 19%, doesn't it?"

"So?" Draco asked, swatting her hand away and retracting his own, safeguarding it against his chest. "You already knew that, Granger."

"No, Malfoy, it says  _nineteen_  percent," she said, brown eyes unreasonably wide. "One- _nine_."

He couldn't for the life of him understand what had gotten her so worked up. "Yes, Granger, I can bloody read—"

"It was 18% before, you smarmy ponce," she informed him, breathless, and he frowned.

"Maybe you're mistaken," he said. "In any event it hardly matters, does it?"

"I'm not mistaken!" He worried she was headed for another violent outburst and backed away in protest, covering his face just in case, but she had merely forced open her purse, summoning some sort of notepad and shoving it in front of his nose. "See?"

_Terry Boot, 80%_  
_New postman, 44%_  
_Gladys, 32%_  
_Woman at the coffee cart, 29%_  
_Tourist outside the Ministry, 53%_  
_Draco Malfoy, 18%_  
_Priest or some other clergyman walking towards me on Tottenham (nice eyes!), 21%_  
_Percy Weasley, 92%_  
_Lily Moon, 42%_  
_Bastien Queensbury, 33%_  
_Nigel Wroxton (86% shirt), 13%_  
_Gareth Pewsey (42% shirt), 67%_  
_Arman Shettigar (0% shirt), 55%_

"Percy Weasley, really?" Draco scoffed, attempting to turn the page and look over the other percentages. "And why would anyone keep track of this? Some strange woman at the coffee cart, are you mad?"

"It's for purposes of calculating means and medians and—and I  _certainly_  don't have to explain myself to you!" she trumpeted crossly, snatching the notepad from his hands before he could see (for purposes of personal satisfaction) what her compatibility had been with the ex-boyfriend in question. "The point is it went up, Malfoy, which isn't something I ever thought to consider!  _Of course_  there was a missing factor in George's and my calculations—it was always too easy, wasn't it?—it's TIME!" she half-shouted, and though Theo was unable to jump from where he was forcibly sitting, he looked as if he'd have liked to. "And if it went up with  _you_ ," Hermione continued to Draco with an undisguised look of contempt, "whom I  _detest_ —"

"Oh, surely you can do better," Theo said, tutting with disapproval. "Detest, really? Seems too soft a word."

"How drunk are you?" Draco asked him.

"Only detestably," he sniffed, "so you see my point."

"—then surely it must have gone up with other people!" Hermione finished, her eyes now impossibly large by the time Harry reappeared, brandishing the paperwork for Theo's release.

"Alright, so, initial h-"

"Harry, I have to go immediately right now," Hermione said, expelling the sentiment all in one breath as Harry looked up, frowning. "I… hang on, just let me—" She leaned over, squinting at his hand. "Yes, okay, that's… hm. Well." She steadied herself, giving him a deranged sort of smile. "I just have to go, um. Talk to someone."

"Talk to who?" Harry called after her, forgetting temporarily about Theo amid something even Draco had to admit was a very understandable concern for his lunatic friend. "Wait, Hermione, please tell me you're not going to talk to R-"

"I'm going to talk to  _everyone_ ," she said, looking positively elated. "Don't you see, Harry? TIME," she barked again, and then she darted out of the room before bursting back in, half-panting. "See you at dinner?"

"I really don't know," Harry said. "It's possible I may just die here."

"Excellent, around seven it is. See you then!" she called back, disappearing from the door frame as Harry turned back to Draco and Theo with a sigh, giving them both a wary glare.

"Just sign the papers and leave," he muttered, already a comfortingly familiar phrase, and Draco picked up a quill, rolling his eyes.

"You do realize you could just  _not_  arrest him, don't you?" Draco said, finding the line for his signature and sweeping the quill across the page. "He's essentially the same as a puppy, or a mentally incapacitated parrot." A page turn, plus a set of initials. "Nothing can be done about it, Potter." Another signature, another page turn. "You're simply wasting Ministry resources to put us all through the endless capricity of Theo's moods," he finished, signing  _DLM_  with his usual flourish.

"It's true," Theo agreed, hellish as ever. "And considering our perfect compatibility, Potter, you should simply admit that I've won and surrender to our inevitable autumn wedding before I decide you're simply not my type."

"You should, too," Draco sternly advised Harry, before clarifying with a shudder of revulsion, "The surrendering bit, not the wedding. The more you push this, the more unbearable you'll make him," he cautioned, having already sorted out as much from having to be dragged to the Auror offices a second time in less than a week.

"Well, if it's a matter of who can be more stubborn, I assure you, you will not win," Harry informed them both, accepting the papers from Draco and bending to aim his wand at Theo's face. "Now. If you want to continue pretending you live in a world without consequences, be my guest. Do you know what they call an Auror with no power or responsibilities except for keeping you off the streets, Nott?" he prompted softly, and while it was an idiotic question bound for an even stupider answer, Harry filled in the blanks for him anyway. "Your worst fucking nightmare."

Theo's mouth cracked into a broad, euphoric smile; the demonic kind, which couldn't have been good news.

"I'm going to ruin your life, Harry Potter," he said.

"Do it, Nott, I dare you," Harry replied without hesitation, and flicked his wand beside Theo's throat.

With that, the bindings on Theo's arms and legs were released and he stood, expectantly holding his hand out for his wand. Harry slapped it into his palm.

"Well, this is bizarre," Draco said, reaching for his coffee and rising to his feet. "Should I ask what happened last night, or…?"

"No need. See you soon, Potter," Theo said, picking up his sunglasses from Harry's desk and shoving them onto his face, swaggering unevenly away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For orangepine, who makes me alternately laugh and sigh with joy, Gaeleria (and baby number 3!), and LaurelKing, who is onto my tricks. Chapter title comes from Matthew McConaughey's magnum opus, Dazed and Confused: "Say, man, you got a joint?" "No, not on me, man." "It'd be a lot cooler if you did."


	4. That's Just Like, Your Opinion

**Chapter 4: That's Just Like, Your Opinion**

_Within ten minutes  
15 June 2002_

"TIME," Hermione announced, after knocking politely on George's open door frame and startling him into dropping the piece of half-eaten toast in his hand, which she helpfully returned to its original state of floorless sanitation. After all, she did not have the necessary eternity to wait for him to make another; an owl from Dauntless had accosted her mid-walk with yet another request from Lily Moon's publicity team, so she had plenty to do and no time to waste doing it. Already, her tasks for the week had increased from a visit to some sort of nursery school for celebrity-spawn to a recurrent feature with a capricious popstar, which was…

The pinnacle of investigative journalism, no doubt.

"Time," Hermione repeated firmly, once the toast had been re-secured in George's hand. "Obviously we couldn't have calculated the effects of time on compatibility before—"

"Because you were not actually involved in creating the enchantment?" George guessed.

"—because insufficient time had passed from its initial development," Hermione finished, before adding with a scoff, "And you  _did_  come to me for purposes of peer review, did you not?"

"I did not, no," George said, resuming the toast's occupancy in his mouth. "Technically," he mused through a mouthful of raspberry preserve, "I do believe my exact words were 'please voice your opposition now before you print your inevitable criticism in the  _Daily Prophet_ ,' but—"

"But I was helpful, was I not?" Hermione prompted. George, who either had too much toast in his mouth or enough sense not to disagree, gave a conciliatory shrug that could have meant any number of things. For purposes of expediency, Hermione chose to accept his silence as tacit agreement. "The point is," she continued, slightly louder in the event his single uncursed ear was preventing him from grasping the weight of the situation, "we hadn't sufficient data to categorically prove compatibilities could change over time, but now that the charm has been in circulation for a full calendar year—"

"I'm not entirely sure what about any of this led you to believe I was conducting some sort of sociological study," George said, having finally gulped down the last of what remained of his breakfast. "I'm just a businessman, Hermione. Whether people understand the very truth and nature of love is as irrelevant to me as their corporeal wellness."

(She didn't doubt it. See also: Skiving Snackboxes, 1995.)

"On that note," George added cheerfully, "would you care for a biscuit?"

Knowing it would probably turn her hair blue or her skin translucent or otherwise compromise both her appearance and the known laws of physics, Hermione declined, falling into the seat opposite George's desk.

"It changes," she told him firmly, and he sighed, conceding to be reasonable and possibly even academic for what she knew from experience to be a maximum of five minutes. "I have proof that it can. What do you think that means?"

"Well," George said, considering it, "barring any errors in the charm's formulation, of which there are of course none—"

"Parameter accepted," Hermione confirmed. She did not, after all, make mistakes, and she had analyzed the enchantment itself dozens of times over.

"—then I suppose yes, you  _could_  conceivably expect that compatibility with others would change as the charm bearer experienced change over time," George determined, "whether by personal growth or, I suppose, possible regression."

"So it's like velocity and acceleration when it comes to measuring speed," Hermione deduced, and to George's look of either stomach pain or bemusement, she further clarified, "Velocity measures speed in a given direction, but acceleration measures how much speed changes  _over time_ , so—"

"Yes, fine, whatever, fine," George said, waving her away as if her hopelessly inconsequential muggle-isms of science and maths had no business in his empire of farcical nonsense—which, she supposed, they did not, owing to their vast superiority. Though, better she not point that out, lest his whims subsequently lead to turning any part of her the aforementioned shade of blue. "And in terms that aren't complete rubbish—?"

"People change," she murmured, more to herself than to him. "So if I changed, then my compatibility with others would change." Not that she was entirely satisfied with the outcome of her hypothesizing, due in large part to the possibility she might have become somehow  _more_  appealing to certain sniveling ferrets. (See also: Abuse of Power by Hogwarts Professors/Escaped Fugitives in Disguise Amid Otherwise Entertaining and Karmically-Deserved Instances of Human-to-Animal Transfiguration, 1993.)

George shrugged, foisting his hands behind his head and reclining in his chair like a leisurely pirate captain. "I imagine so."

"Well, it can't simply be a matter of running into someone twice in one week. If compatibility were nothing more than a coincidental matter of knowing someone better than you did before, then compatibility between strangers would be a completely useless valuation," she summarized, having long ago deduced as much. "Which, of course, we already know it isn-"

"Mm, yes," George interrupted, "and unrelated, who  _have_  you run into, exactly?"

He was gleeful now, giving her the look that had once meant he intended to test noseblood nougat on first years the moment she was out of the room, which in turn suggested their conversation was unlikely to remain productive.

"No one," Hermione replied stiffly, being not even close to in the mood when it came to a potential discussion of the eternally smarmy Draco Malfoy. The idea she might have somehow become more compatible with him was only tolerable in that it was contradictorily promising; i.e., the single point's increase in compatibility between herself and the human iteration of her own personal hell would have had to magnify exponentially elsewhere. "The point is—"

"You already know the point, clearly," George cut in, splitting his attention between her and the plate of biscuits, which she now suspected contained more than trace amounts of doxy venom. "For one thing, I think we both know you've been sending me unsolicited data for over a year—"

"Ah, so my messages  _were_  coming through!" Hermione exclaimed, relieved to finally have confirmation. "I have to tell you, George, I've been quite concerned you'd let your Floo maintenance fall to the wayside. Didn't you read the book I gave you last Christmas on the care and keeping of commercial Floo lines?" she demanded, as he sighed. "You  _know_  how they require constant nurtur-"

"What exactly do you need my input for, hm?" George prompted, blithely ignoring her concerns despite the obvious fact he was using said Christmas gift as a doorstop (which, in his defense,  _was_  a sizable weight for such purposes, although a charm might have done the same job with slightly less blatant flippancy.) "Are you hoping I'll say, 'wonderful work, Hermione, please do revisit every compatibility percentage you've encountered over the past year and report back to me with the HEIGHT of urgency'—"

"Well, I do have quite a lot on my plate, but I'm sure I could manage it," Hermione assured him, relieved he'd finally thought to ask. "Obviously I didn't want to step on any toes, after all it  _is_  your invention—"

"Yes, my magnum opus," George muttered to himself, which Hermione of course did not have time to hear, being well into the process of determining where to start. "Certainly not a catastrophic error on my part, what with every outcome being exactly as I intended and not remotely more annoying than originally conceived—"

"I'm so sorry, George, I'd love to stay and chat, but unfortunately I have to work," Hermione informed him, apologetic in her reminder that his usefulness had lapsed. "Though, if you do want to chat about your Floo maintenance, I could be free for lunch next Thursday?"

"Tragically, I've already scheduled a spontaneous waltz into the ocean," George said. "Perhaps at my wake the following Monday?"

"Monday's no good, but we'll work something out," Hermione assured him, breathless as she began considering possible locations for the evasive Seamus Finnegan, who had been the first person she'd run into after receiving the charm and with whom she shared a mystifying 54%. "Have a marvelous Tuesday!"

"It's Saturday," George said.

"Yes, you too!" Hermione called over her shoulder, hurrying out the door.

* * *

When things had been silent for a few days, Draco had begun to suspect one of two things: either Theo had already grown tired of plotting to destroy Harry Potter by virtue of driving him to madness and had simply taken a nap, or he had become  _enamored_  with plotting and would very soon have nothing but chaos to show for it. By the time Theo invited him out to Diagon for a brisk afternoon constitutional, Draco had come to assume the mystery of Theo's position on the matter would be shortly resolved and therefore, did not bother to ask.

"What do you think about Granger's little outburst, hm?" was Theo's opening subject of conversation, having already undergone the perfunctory small talk, a la:  _How was work? Terrible. More or less terrible than always? The same, really. Can it really be terrible if there is no progression on the matter? What on earth does that mean, Nott? Well, if it's terrible every day then terrible becomes simply normal. Whereas I would argue that if terrible is consistent then my measure of satisfaction in fact decreases as the scale of terrible persists. Ah, I see, milk? Yes, and one sugar, thank you._

In short, the usual conversation.

"I really haven't thought of Granger at all," Draco replied, which was a categorical lie they both understood to be a necessary preface. "Do you mean her maniacal breakdown, perchance? Because Granger's departure from sanity was certainly inevitable from the first," he advised, taking a perfunctory sip of his coffee. "I hardly think it worth considering in depth."

"Oh, please," Theo scoffed, guiding Draco toward a left turn. "You've not even considered what the increase in compatibility between the two of you might mean? Surely the concept has wormed its way into your permanent state of existential crisis."

"Crisis?" Draco echoed. "Nonsense. I haven't the time."

"Draco, you have never in your life encountered a dilemma not worth extending," Theo replied, strolling down the Alley to aim a rather unsettling smile at startled passersby. "Surely it bothers you a little."

"Only circumstantially." Sleeplessness was a magnificent curse that way, allowing his brain to torment him with unwelcome memories and thoughts and the inadvertent repetition of song lyrics. "Am I to assume  _you_  have thoughts on the matter, Nott?"

"Certainly," Theo replied, "and I'm so glad you've finally thought to ask. Theory one," he announced, helpfully tossing a galleon to a small child who'd been eyeing a dungbomb in a nearby shop's window. "You and Granger have become the mindless playthings of an omnipotent but ambivalent god and will henceforth provide the bread and circus for her pleasure."

"That," Draco agreed, "was my first thought as well."

"Theory two," Theo continued, "you've secretly indulged your incurable desires to cast yourself into the flames of an apathetic inferno—which, as we know, is Granger's dearest wish for you, and therefore an aspiration you must both wholeheartedly share."

"Less likely," Draco said. "I am not overly fond of bodily harm."

"Theory three is that Granger has newly devoted herself to the lifestyle of a wealthy but loftily charming bachelor with a taste for grandeur and a penchant for self-destruction, which of course is—"

"Overruled," they chimed in unison.

"—leaving only theory four," Theo finished, "which is that perhaps  _you_  are the source of your mysterious increase in compatibility."

"What, you think I've become more similar to Granger?" Draco scoffed. "Theodore, let me be clear, I did not come here to be so  _brutally_  insulted—"

"It's not a measure of similarity, you cerebral ruffian. It's a matter of  _compatibility_ ," Theo informed him, nudging Draco to the right. "And pay attention, would you? I've an errand to run."

"At Gringotts?" Draco asked, doubtful. "I thought your father kept all his money in those bizarre underground catacombs you've stashed below your house."

"He did," Theo confirmed, "and don't think I'll let you get away with distracting me. What aspect of you has possibly become  _more_  compatible with the brains behind Potter's lifelong trail of fortunate coincidences, hm? Ah yes, hello," he said, turning his attention to the wrinkled goblin at his feet. "I'd like to rob this bank, please."

"Isn't that a bit unfair?" Draco asked him, half-listening. "It merely  _increased_ , Nott, by the sparseness of a single percentage. It did not suddenly become conceivable we should join up and pledge ourselves to eternity."

"I beg your pardon," the goblin said to Theo, mildly affronted. "Did you say rob?"

"I did indeed," Theo replied, adding to Draco, "Yes, but an increase of a single percentage is still significant, don't you think? If everyone else's remains stagnant, then theoretically, even the increase of one percent is actually quite remarkable."

"I don't understand," the goblin said. "Is this… a joke?"

"How can you simply presume everyone else's compatibility remained stagnant?" Draco asked him. "Have you done the necessary research?"

"One moment, please, Draco, the staff here is notoriously imperceptive. YES, HELLO, FELLOW PATRONS OF GRINGOTTS BANK," Theo announced, launching himself with a flick of his wand atop the marble counters. "I REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT YOU ARE ALL THE VICTIMS OF A HEINOUS AND IMMORAL CRIME. SPECIFICALLY, THIS ONE."

"I suppose if I'm being honest I did check Pansy's," Draco mused, leaning against the counter as a nearby witch dropped to the floor with a shriek, several others sprinting for the doors in panic. Pansy, whom Draco had not seen in a week, had only permitted him five minutes of her attention before declaring with a thud of at least four heavy legal books that she had better things to do than rehash the ongoing saga of Gryffindorian drivel. "Hers hadn't changed with anyone, either." She'd informed him as much before barking for him to either leave immediately or spend the next four hours researching obscure case law for something he couldn't begin to fathom, which of course he earnestly declined.

"Well, that's precisely my point, isn't it?" Theo said, flicking his wand to carry the herd of goblins who'd advanced in his direction away on a small, fluffy cloud. "Surely you can't say it's entirely—" He paused, sighing, and turned over his shoulder, addressing one of the goblins behind the counter as another swarm of them approached. "Someone should probably alert an Auror, don't you think?" he said to the goblin clerk, somewhat impatiently. "To my understanding, that's standard protocol in the event of a robbery. Anyway, where was I?" he asked at the goblin's small sigh of concession, turning back to Draco. "Right, you can't say it's entirely  _un_ -interesting, can you?"

"I wouldn't say that necessarily, no," Draco conceded, folding his arms over his chest. In reality, it  _had_  been the subject of no small amount of pondering. It was only Hermione's own application of weightiness keeping him from any number of wilder pursuits; like, for example, owling Astoria to ask if she had any interest in having coffee, which he had only coincidentally done because several months had passed and it was important to keep up one's correspondence, which had in turn been a lesson imparted from his mother and therefore perfectly reasonable to pursue.

If Hermione had reacted to their increased percentage with anything shy of her precise degree of insanity, Draco admittedly might have indulged the lurch in his chest at the possibility his compatibility might have changed with other people. But, seeing as she was completely deranged and he was not, he had of course done nothing.

And anyway, Astoria was busy planning some sort of philanthropic children's event, so. All in all, it was a wash. (She had invited him along to be polite but, as he'd reminded her, the under-five demographic had never been his forte. Something about children and their unfettered honesty made him supremely uncomfortable, and besides, he did not have time for the unavoidable stomach flu that came from interacting with tiny walking cesspools. It was astounding mass quarantines were not more frequently attempted.)

"It may be of a certain… relevance to me," Draco conceded, stepping aside as a goblin attempted to wrangle Theo by launching himself at his ankles, "but I can't say I find the increase as telling as you do."

"Well, that accounts for our incompatible half, I assume," Theo said, ducking a spell that had been aimed at his head and leaping down beside Draco, tiring of his fruitless elevation. "I do have a certain irrepressible thirst for knowledge, which you've always Slytherinly lacked."

"You're a Slytherin too, in case that escaped your attention," Draco said with a roll of his eyes, following after him as Theo launched himself in the direction of the bank vaults, conjuring a shield charm that formed a translucent bubble around them. "By the way, is this strictly necessary?" Draco asked tangentially, gesturing to the ongoing havoc outside the sphere of their private conversation.

"Well, they don't seem to be taking my threat of wrongdoing particularly seriously, do they?" Theo lamented, striding forward without pause. "I would have thought I'd be stunned by now, at least."

"I take it you've not forgotten about your threats to Potter, then," Draco observed.

"Draco, this is a bank robbery," Theo informed him. "I haven't the slightest idea why you'd think the two even remotely relat-"

"NOTT!" came a bellow behind them. "HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?"

Draco arched a brow, and Theo shrugged.

"Coincidence," he said. "How was I to know Potter was on duty at this precise time, hm? Riddle me that."

"Certainly not extensive research," Draco replied drily. "How did you know he'd be the one sent over here?"

"Certainly not by calling in an anonymous bomb threat at a nursery school gala," Theo said. "That would just be heinous and immoral."

"So true," Draco agreed, just as—what else—a marginally proficient disarming spell finally broke through the shield charm and hit Theo square in the shoulderblades, sending his wand flying out of his hand to deposit itself in a waiting Harry Potter's hand.

"Well, if it isn't the Boy Who Expelliarmused," Theo said, revolving slowly and placing his hands atop his head. "Am I to presume I'm finally under arrest?"

"I'm really not sure I understand this as a master plan," Draco murmured, and Theo shrugged, still giving Harry a taunting glance.

"All will become clear in time, Malfoy. Or it won't," Theo said, "and I'll just tell everyone it was a public art piece."

"Love that," Draco offered approvingly, just as a beleaguered Harry Potter joined them, wrenching Theo's hands to bind them behind his back.

"Theodore Nott, you're under arrest for the robbery of Gringotts Bank," Harry sighed, sounding both noticeably rehearsed and deeply embattled. "You do not have to say anything—in fact, I beg you to not—but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when question-"

"It's sweet that you've prepared a speech for the occasion," Theo cut in, twisting around to smile goadingly at Harry. "Hope you haven't been too lonely without me, Potter."

"You can post bail when he's been processed," Harry muttered to Draco, giving Theo a murderous look of scar-faced irritation. "Try not to flee the country."

"Well, my alternatives are hardly persuasive, but fine," Draco replied, waving them off as Harry disapparated with a scowl, the rest of the goblins expressing some degree of malcontent for Draco's continued presence. "Yes, yes, I'm going," he informed them, wading back across the marble floors and heading for the exit. "Though, he's right, you know. You really ought to have a protocol for this sort of thing," he suggested, striding through the doors and deciding to indulge a sudden, desperate craving for a pint.

* * *

"I really can't imagine why anyone would threaten to harm  _children_ ," Astoria Greengrass frantically bemoaned, one hand flying to her mouth as the other fluttered in reference to the massive ballroom behind her. "I mean true, there aren't any children  _present_ , but still. It's the principle of the thing, isn't it?"

"It certainly is," Hermione replied, gesturing to her quill. She wasn't entirely sure why a black tie auction was necessary for a nursery school, but she struggled in equal measure to find it worth the asking. Rich people did as rich people did, et cetera et cetera, so on and so forth.

Astoria, meanwhile, was looking around with palpable concern. "I just don't see how any of the big ticket items are going to go quickly now," she lamented, frowning at what appeared to be an autographed broom. "That's an original Nimbus! And honestly, I don't see  _how_  Lily Moon is expected to adequately perform after all this fuss, really," she sighed, "so I suppose we should just do as we're told and evacuate—"

"Are you raising money for a new facility?" Hermione asked, mildly curious to know how a broom worth hundreds of thousands of galleons and an 'intimate philanthropic event' featuring the most famous pop singer of the current era could possibly serve the education of small wizarding children.

"Oh no, of course not. But the more we raise during the summer auction, the more promising the autumn casino night has a tendency to be," Astoria fretted aloud, briefly tearing her gaze from the ongoing mass of Aurors to glance down at Hermione. "My mother's a longtime board member of the Sacred School," she explained, and Hermione nodded, gesturing for the quill to add that to her notes. "My sister and I both attended the school as children. Lily Moon herself is an alumna," she added brightly, "along with nearly every Prefect to have come from Slytherin House—"

"It was my understanding that wizarding children were typically taught in their homes before attending Hogwarts," Hermione noted aloud, and Astoria gave a delicate laugh of patient disagreement.

"Many are, yes, but of course for families who want their children to have a head start, magical nursery schools are preferable," she said kindly. "After all, wouldn't every parent want to see their son transfigure his first pet into a teacup well before his Sorting, or discover early on if their daughter has a divinatory gift that requires fostering? Early childhood development is so very important, after all."

This, unsurprisingly, rankled Hermione's nerves. "Is admission open to all wizarding children?"

"Oh, heavens, yes," Astoria said with a laugh, "though the board requires the highest quality references for acceptance, of course. The staff is, after all, the very best in their field, and we do try to keep class sizes small."

Somehow, Hermione suspected that did not include muggleborn children, or anyone else who couldn't afford what had to be exorbitant tuition. And if the 'Sacred' in Sacred School was not a reference to the 'Sacred Twenty-Eight,' she'd eat Neville's grandmother's hat.

"Don't you think," Hermione began tightly, "that giving some children a head start might, in fact, be an unfair advant-"

"Oh, so sorry, there's Mamá," Astoria said, appearing to not have heard Hermione's opposition. "Please do include in your article how tirelessly our volunteers worked to put all this together, will you? Thank you so much!" she called, disappearing as a woman who might have been Astoria's slightly older twin beckoned frantically from afar.

Hermione was terribly sorry to see her go, which was not something she had ever expected to think about Astoria Greengrass until that precise moment. Unfortunately, the absence of Astoria meant Hermione was now eligible for an upsetting eyeful of Ron Weasley, who was completing his report by interviewing some of the auction's attendees.

A week had gone by with Hermione having dedicated her full investigatory prowess to the subject of her compatibility. (Astoria's, for the record, was an astonishing 78%. Though, Astoria  _was_  very pretty and obviously accomplished, so perhaps that was flattering in the end.) Hermione had dutifully promised Harry three times that she wouldn't go running after Ron for her research, but now that he was here by coincidence, she didn't see how it could possibly be avoided. She waited until Ron looked up from his notes, catching her eye, and then pretended to be startled by his appearance, figuring that saved each of them the obvious embarrassment of struggling to acknowledge the other from across the room.

"Oh, hello Ron," she called, and after a moment's uncertainty, he ambled towards her, giving her that strange nod in greeting she'd always thought made him look a bit gawkish. "Been a while, hasn't it?"

"Has been a bit, yeah." He gave her an odd look, clearing his throat. "What are you here for? Didn't think you were such a fan of posh pureblood society."

"I was assigned to it. I'm, well—" Ah, and how to possibly say she was here to report on the most utterly inane of social events? "I'm writing an exposé," Hermione decided, finding that to be sufficiently important-sounding, "on the… ah." Balls. "The classism embedded in early magical education among the wizarding elite," she decided hastily.

That was nearly over half true. Privately, she congratulated herself.

"Oh, yes, of course. You know, Padma said"—briefly, Hermione thought she might choke on something, a stray breeze perhaps, but compelled herself with her entire willpower to recover quickly—"you were doing a piece on Lily Moon, so I thought maybe it was that. I obviously told her you'd find that assignment to be total rubbish," he added with a chuckle, "but—"

"Rubbish? Hardly. Miss Moon asked me personally to report on her UK Tour," Hermione said, which was entirely true and not at all being weaponized for personal gain. "It's a favor to her, if you must know." Evidently Lily Moon had liked Hermione's demeanor, according to her manager, which was no real surprise. Hermione was, after all, a war hero and a preeminent journalist of the highest possible caliber, not that Ron needed reminding. "Anyway," she said, clearing her throat, "you hadn't mentioned you were seeing Padma. Is that new?"

Ron raised a hand, raking it through his hair, which was a surprisingly appropriate length. Probably Padma's doing, as he had always kept it overlong while they were dating. Hermione bristled, then glanced at his wrist and forced a swallow.

"It's been a little over a month," Ron said. "It's going well, but I don't expect you want to hear about that."

"Why not? We're friends," Hermione said, chest suddenly a bit tight. "Aren't we?"

"Of course. Yes, yeah, of course." Ron cleared his throat, blue eyes cutting guiltily away. "You don't, um. Well, I suppose you and Harry are doing well. I know he's not especially happy at work, but I think he's get-"

"Just out of curiosity, how is your percentage with Padma?" Hermione asked, careful to keep her voice light. "I only ask, of course, because you seemed so very insistent it shouldn't matter to me," she added, observing his expression going stiff.

"Mione," Ron said, which sounded like a warning. "Is this really the time for another row?"

"What row? I'm just asking," she assured him. "I hope it's not a sore subject for you," she added, feigning concern. "Because you should know that just because we didn't work out, that certainly doesn't mean the two of  _you_  won't work out. You might grow into it, you know," she informed him brightly. "I've recently come to learn that the percentage compatibility can change over time, so even if it's not at a pleasing point now, it could still always go u-"

"It's 93%," Ron cut in flatly, muscle tightening around his jaw as Hermione stopped, taken aback. "Happy?" he asked, in the particular tone of voice suggesting  _he_  was not, in fact, happy in the slightest with having said it, which was itself such a common and frustrating occurrence during the later stages of their relationship it had always made her wonder why on earth he even bothered to say it.

"I… why, yes, Ron, I  _am_  happy for you, in fact," Hermione managed to say. "This is what I always said, isn't it?" she prompted, fumbling a bit to produce more words and, ideally, better ones. "That in the end we were just wasting our time, and—"

"How do you know the percentage can change?" Ron interrupted, frowning. "Are you…" He stopped, and Hermione got the nauseating sensation he suddenly felt sorry for her. "Is that… Are you saying that you thought you and I might have—"

"Of course not. Of course not." Certainly not after seeing that it hadn't changed a whit. "I was just… it was just, you know. Small talk. Polite conversation between friends. You know, because we're friends," she reminded him, brightening to add, "In fact, we should all hang out, don't you think?"

Instantly, he blanched. She wished she could take it back, but magic only went so far.

"I don't know, Hermione—"

"Why not? Padma and I work together. And you and I've been best friends for… well, for over a decade, haven't we?" God almighty, why could she not stop talking? "It just seems like we should all get together, that's all. There's certainly no reason not to."  _No reason_ , her brain screamed,  _except for literally every reason that has existed or ever will exist!_

"Well, that's… true." Ron frowned. "I guess we could have dinner or something, if you wanted," he said slowly, driving an unpleasant sensation of horror into the base of her abdomen. "Just the, uh. The three of us?"

She certainly couldn't tell him that was the stupidest idea she'd ever heard, however much he deserved to hear it. That would be rude, and she wasn't rude. She was extremely reasonable and unequivocally gracious.

"Well, only if  _you_  want to, Ronald."

"I mean, I want to if  _you_  want to—"

"Which I do, obviously!" She gave a brief, mad bark of laughter, suddenly wanting to snap at him or otherwise drive a stake through his chest. "Why on earth would I have said it if I were not perfectly okay with you and Padma?" Her brain was obviously melting. There was no other explanation for this. Something had snapped and now she was physically crumbling beneath the weight of her broken brain. "I can't think of anything I'd love more than dinner with you two!" Oh, except for everything. Except for burying herself alive in a tomb with only Rita Skeeter and his mother for company. "Truly, Ron, I'd love it, I'm so pleased you thought of it." Perhaps if she hadn't done all his homework he might have managed to be even slightly more capable of independent thought. "Tomorrow night at ours?"

_Say no, say no, please say no—_

"Tomorrow sounds great," Ron said, and briefly, she considered murdering him and then herself before determining that to be potentially a bit rash. "I'd better get back to work, though—see you tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," Hermione confirmed, waiting until he had turned before disapparating away.

Directly into the Leaky Cauldron.

Where she narrowly prevented a scream.

"Bloody Christ," muttered an unfortunately familiar voice, just as Hermione noticed she had apparated directly into someone's path, sending his whisky sloshing onto the front of his shirt. "Ah, Granger, of course," came Draco Malfoy's tone of slippery condescension, his grey eyes narrowing as he registered her presence and waved a hand, wandlessly ridding himself of the excess alcohol. "Well, well, if someone doesn't look a bit more frizzy than usu-"

"Give me that," Hermione snapped, yanking the glass from his hand and downing what remained of it in a single gulp, shuddering as she realized it wasn't remotely whisky at all. "My god," she coughed up, making a face and eyeing the glass. "What was  _in_  that?"

"Absinthe," Draco said, followed by, "you're welcome."

Hermione gave another shudder of distaste. "Terrible," she said, turning to set the glass on the bar. "Two more of those, please," she informed Tom the barkeep, who snapped his fingers, promptly refilling one and conjuring the other. "Marvelous," she said, and dropped herself heavily onto an available barstool, raising one glass to her lips.

"Well, this is interesting," remarked Draco, who apparently didn't possess the requisite social aptitude to leave her to her crisis in peace. Instead, he pulled out the stool beside her, watching her as if she were some sort of fascinating zoo animal. "What could have possibly happened to you, Granger?"

She downed the second shot of absinthe, turned her head, and shoved his watch aside, glancing down at the percentage.

22%.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" she asked the universe aloud, unsurprised it sheepishly did not deign to answer. She didn't normally overspend when it came to obscenities, but that one felt wholly justified. She permitted the full, hateful effect of her most unrestrained scowl, and then turned to the second glass, suddenly feeling moderately sickened.

"Not to point out the obvious," Draco said, "but it has become clear to me you're somewhere south of jubilant and relatively north of cross."

His breath was spiced and sweet, like licorice. "You've been drinking," she observed, raising a brow.

"Came for a pint. Got thirsty." Draco reached over, slipping the second shot glass from her fingers. "You owe me this one," he informed her, and raised the glass for a sip, holding it trapped between his lips for a second before tipping his head back, depositing the contents into the back of his throat and blinking as his eyes watered. "Awful," he judged, and gave a full-bodied shiver. "I love it. Makes me feel my mortality, which is both exquisitely depressing and justly deserved."

He turned to her with his usual narrow-eyed skepticism, licking away the little gleam of alcohol that lingered on his lips.

"What?" she snapped, finding his stare fully unsettling.

"Tell me about your research," he said, half-daring her. "Come on, Granger, I know you're dying to."

She felt her mouth tighten. "What research?"

"Your… data collection. Your notes." He leaned forward, propping his head up while his elbow rested on the surface of the bar. "You know, I wouldn't have guessed you'd care much about any of this," he said, flicking the percentage on her wrist. "You've always been so reliably cynical."

"It's not as if it's tarot cards," she said, giving his hand a shove. "It's compatibility. It's not about the future, it's about personality. Traits, characteristics, preferences—"

"Blah, blah, sure it is. Look, I know you did the research, Granger," Draco patronizingly swanned, reaching out to tap her nose with a finger as she lurched away, "so you might as well tell me, because I'm probably the only person in this entire galaxy and certainly in this pub who's going to want to hear it."

"Like I'd tell you," she muttered. "You'd only find some way to mock me."

"Mm. Right." He reached over, brusquely spinning the seat of her stool so she faced him with a loud squawk of indignation, nearly toppling to the floor. "Relax, stop, you're fine—did it increase with Weasley?" he asked, incorrectly finding that a perfectly reasonable thing to interrogate her with. "Just tell me that."

"What? No," she snapped, jerking away from him. "Go away."

"Tell me and I'll leave you alone." He smirked at her, or smiled. He was either nicer when he was drunk or he was another person wearing Draco Malfoy's face as disguise. Hermione briefly considered checking for polyjuice potion before realizing she would then be morally obligated to help him, which she did not presently care to do. Instead, she simply turned her head. "Come on, Granger, just tell me. Nobody's listening and I know you want to. Just tell m-"

"No, okay?"

It slipped out.

That had to be it. Her defense in court after she inevitably assaulted him with a tribe of angry bees would have to be:  _Your Honor, I swear, it slipped out._

To her amazement, though, he didn't laugh.

"No?" he echoed.

"No," she confirmed, and then, though she wanted very badly to feel no compulsion to do so (but did, because life was unfair), she added, "It didn't increase with anyone."

"Are you sure?" What a question. "How many people did you check with?"

"Seventy-five." He blinked, startled, and she fought a groan. "Stop, okay? It's not as if it's inconceivable I'd see that many people in a given w-"

"Seventy-five," he repeated, "and not one increased?"

"No. In fact some of them decreased."

He brought a hand to his mouth, contemplating that. "But Weasley's…?"

"No change," she said, the anise on her tongue going increasingly bitter before she realized, abruptly, that this was perhaps her single opportunity to make use of the situation. "Hang on," she said, and Draco gave her an arched look of prompting. "Maybe if I knew why our compatibility changed, I could replicate its effects elsewhere. You know," she added, slightly encouraged or possibly a little tipsy from what was obviously extremely potent absinthe, "apply the theory to practice."

"What theory?"

"That we're increasing in compatibility."

"That's an observation, not a theory."

"I… that's not the point. What do you think accounts for our  _incompatibility_ , hm?" she prompted, determining that the easier calculation. "If our incompatibility is shrinking, then maybe one of us is inadvertently doing something to change it."

That seemed to make a strange sort of half-drunken sense to both of them, judging by the look of hazy contemplation on his face. "So, your theory, Granger," he attempted to synthesize, "is that we could both improve our compatibility with other people if we could somehow manage to do it… advertently?"

"Yes." Sort of. "Something like that."

"Well," he said, gesturing to Tom for more beverages, "what do you suppose counts for incompatibility, then?"

She laughed. Naturally she had assumed he was joking, but the look he gave her suggested quite firmly otherwise.

"Oh, are you… are you serious?" she asked, bewildered. "You really can't think of one reason we're massively incompatible?"

"Well, I prefer my lovers to not correct my form mid-congress," Draco said. "I can only imagine your bedroom whispers include 'it's  _clit_ -oris, not clit- _or_ -is'—"

"Malfoy, you smug bastard." She felt a tiny wave of fury, which she doused with the ale Tom slid in front of her. "Maybe," she seethed over the lip of her glass, "just  _maybe_ , it's your prejudiced bullying arse that puts me off, or maybe it's your unquestioned supremacy, hm? Or possibly the fact that I want to make you eat slugs every time I see your pointy little face—"

"Who says it's unquestioned?" he countered with a lazy grin. "My supremacy, I mean."

"Have you ever thought to question it?" she snapped, and then, with a renewed wave of her previous annoyance from the evening, "You know what? I bet you went to that Sacred School, didn't you?"

"Hm? Oh, yeah," Draco said, indifferent. "Dreadful institution. Lovely library, though. Enchanting place to discover one's head, shoulders, knees, and toes—"

"Don't you see how ridiculous that is?" Hermione demanded. "As if it's not bad enough you're wealthy  _and_  privileged for your blood status, you get educational advantages, too!"

"Didn't stop you from being Prefect, did it?" he asked, directing the question to his glass, which she subsequently (and intentionally) jostled in her annoyance, prompting him to spill. "Hey, Granger, watch it—"

"I was Prefect, Malfoy, because I worked twice as hard as everyone else," Hermione said, furious to find that her eyes were stinging. The idea—the very  _implication_ —that anyone could have done what she did, or that her efforts were somehow worth overlooking, somehow rocketed beyond his childish taunts about her blood or her teeth or her big bushy head. "More than that! I worked  _ten times_  as hard as everyone else only to be positively reviled for it," she hurled at him, "and for you to  _not even know_  why the two of us would be incompatible when you're nothing but a privileged, arrogant, dramatic little toerag is just—"

"I didn't not work," Draco cut in, appearing to be somewhat injured, or perhaps just injuriously squinty-eyed. "I worked harder than Potter and Weasley, didn't I? And I don't see you giving me any credit for that."

"You think you deserve  _credit_?" Hermione echoed, scoffing in disbelief, though before they went down the 'my horse is bigger than your horse' route (hers being unquestionably bigger to anyone who was not a fucking idiot), she opted to reroute her emotional, regrettably absinthed state to the logical source of their argument, i.e. the more sophisticated high ground. "And anyway, it's not a matter of rehashing our entire horrible history, Malfoy, I'm simply saying that when it comes to our compatibility—"

She was cut off, however, as twin stags approached from somewhere near the ceiling.

"Malfoy, come get Nott before I'm forced to arrest myself for murder," said a disgruntled version of Harry's voice, just as the second stag said, in slightly more dulcet tones, "Hermione, would you mind picking up something for supper and meeting me at the Auror offices? I'm starved, and cannibalism is unfortunately frowned upon in most Western cultures."

The stags dissipated into nothing, and after a moment of silence, Hermione turned to Draco, who in turn directed his attention expectantly to her.

"Well," he said tightly. "I suppose we've both been summoned, then."

It certainly appeared that way.

On the one hand, she wanted to cast some debilitating insult over her shoulder and march away from him, possibly slamming a door as she went.

On the other, that would be tawdry, and perhaps a cooler exit, bidding him a farewell as heartless and cold as she could summon the wrath to possess, was a more respectable option.

But on a third, unfortunate hand, she was who she was, and logistical expediency was king.

She chewed her lip, contemplating it. "Should we just—"

"Don't make a thing of it, Granger, I beg you. Tom," Draco called, "two specials for takeaway. Put it on Granger's tab."

"What? Malfoy, I don't have a tab—"

"Fine, open a tab for Granger and put them on it." In response, two dinners materialized on the counter, neatly wrapped. "Brilliant. Shall we?" he prompted, giving her a look that was neither sympathetic nor unsympathetic and appeared to be, actually, quite disinterested.

Good. So he didn't matter to her and she didn't matter to him. Ideal. It meant she was fine and he was fine and everyone here was  _fine_ , and wasn't that a nice thing to not have to lie about being, for once?

"We shall," she said, taking a moment to steady herself as she slid half-bonelessly down from the bar stool, making her way to the Ministry with Draco forced to trail after her perfectly well-adjusted, totally unbothered heels.

* * *

Hermione Granger was a bossy swot of a menace that Draco wouldn't want to cross in the swampiest of nightmares, but he could at least acknowledge that in a strange way, power suited her. Nobody questioned what she was doing in the Ministry after hours. It was as if they were afraid to ask, in fact. Almost none of the guards even looked up at their entry, and likewise, Hermione tapped her way to the elevator without bothering to stop.

It was a rare woman who did not make apologies for the belligerence of her presence, but it also made sense she'd be one of them. Draco supposed she'd done enough apologizing to no beneficial results that perhaps it no longer felt like a prudent use of her time.

"The Sacred School," Draco murmured once they got in the lift, remembering that she'd brought it up. "Why on earth were you asking me about that?"

She gave it a twitchy moment before answering.

"If you must know, Malfoy, it's because I was there for an article. The school was having—"

"A fundraising auction," Draco realized, and half-laughed. "You know, I almost went to that."

"Well, best that you didn't," Hermione said tightly, "as it was basically evacuated by Aurors."

"Why on earth were you there?" he asked her, frowning. "I can't imagine what a nursery school fundraiser could possibly have to do with political news."

"I—" She looked away, mouth a thin, grim line. "I don't work in political news."

"Oh." He cleared his throat. "Well, if it helps, I don't read the  _Prophet_."

"Frankly it astounds me you can read at all."

"Oh,  _ha_ -ha." Fine, if she wanted to play it that way. The elevator dinged, and he muscled his shoulder in front of hers, blithely obstructionary.

"Malfoy, what the—" She shoved him, glaring, and exited onto the DMLE floor. "Can you not?"

"Not what? I'm just wondering what sort of thing you're even writing, Granger. By the sounds of it, hardly news at all… culture, possibly? Certainly not  _pop_  culture," he guessed, and at her instantly rigid response, he fought a smile. " _Pop culture_ , really? The great Hermione Granger, with that giant brain and all those important scholarly thoughts—"

"Astoria was there with her fiancé," she commented, asking with a sidelong glance, "Didn't you two used to date?"

Well, that was rather uncalled for. Or perhaps it wasn't; he'd lost track. "'Dating' is quite a loose term for what we did," Draco assured her smoothly, shoving aside the slight. "What Astoria and I used to do, Granger, was very good, highly skilled, and exceptionally premarital."

"Oh, very cool, now he's going to brag about his sexual conquests," Hermione scoffed, narrating to an invisible audience before rounding on him, lips pursed. "You know, if your prick were really that desirable you'd have somewhere to put it by now."

To both her credit and his complete dismay, he was genuinely quite shocked.

"My goodness, Granger, how positively lewd," Draco managed to faux-gasp, incongruously pretending at very real surprise. "Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?"

"You know, it's incredibly tired," she said tightly, "the whole 'oh, Draco Malfoy, what a sex god,' as if you and I don't  _both know_ you cried like a little girl during the Buckbeak Incident of 1993—"

"I never said I was a god," he shot back, not entirely sure whether he was more agitated that she'd said it or that he was put in the incomprehensible position of having to deny it, "though I certainly don't hear any complaints. What've you got, some irrepressible fantasies about being dominated in the library after hours?"

"What I've  _got_ , Malfoy, is a healthy sexual appetite and ample means to tend to it," Hermione said without blinking, throwing open the door to the Auror offices and marching inside as he gaped after her, positively stunned.

After a moment to process the words she'd said in the unfathomable order she'd said them, he hurried in her wake, catching her conversation with Harry. He was sitting precisely where he usually was, having what appeared to be a staring competition with Theo.

"Pity you had to stay so late, Harry," Hermione told him, glaring at Theo. "It's almost as if  _some_  overstuffed arseholes ought to be forcibly corralled into a home for wayward ponces and banished there for eternity, forbidden to breed."

"I see you and Draco had words," Theo observed, glancing between her and Draco's sulkily oncoming form with a knowing smile. "Marvelous, I hate to think I was the only one enjoying myself on this dastardly Tuesday—"

"It's Saturday," Harry said.

"Only in a world where time has meaning," Theo replied, his voice its most silky-sweet, "though, of course, it vanishes entirely for me whenever you are near."

"Well, this continues to be a hellscape from which I will never escape," Harry remarked, turning to give Hermione a small and highly fleeting smile of gratitude. "Thank you, by the way. I didn't mean to saddle you with Malfoy," he added, flicking an accusatory glance over her shoulder at Draco, "but—"

"You know, it's best that you did, actually," Hermione said, giving Draco a stubborn look of pompous opposition. "It was a much needed reminder that just because compatibility  _can_ increase, it still doesn't mean 22% is any more meaningful to my life than eighteen. There," she added, flinging it at Draco. "Are you pleased with the results of my research?"

"Deeply." Upsettingly, it crossed his mind that perhaps that had been a lie. "What other results could I have expected to receive?" How wonderful that scorn came so easily to him. How not at all frustrating and in fact, how spectacularly convenient for his position amid the wretched maelstrom of social customs that was the human world. "This is perfectly adequate," Draco informed her, "as I would have expected from you."

She bristled, mouth snapping shut. "Good," she growled. "Glad to hear it."

"Good," he replied, and she turned to Theo, giving a little huff.

"And as for you, you're a shameful waste of space," she informed him.

"Thank you. It takes a village, you know," he replied, and she scowled, by then probably too irritated to even consider replying. A talent of Theo's, driving people to that degree of paralyzing fury. It was almost enviable how skilled he really was.

"Let me just finish up with him and get them out of here," Harry told Hermione with a sigh, forcing Theo up by the collar of his jacket. "Just have to close out his intake paperwork and then we can eat," he assured her, Theo's bound ankles floating above the floor as he gave a cheerful wave and permitted himself to be dragged, perfectly content with his latest bout of torment.

Draco and Hermione were left alone, both stiff and grimacing into nothing, which future scholars would be flabbergasted to know Draco was aware was mostly his fault. He hadn't intended to speak to her in the silence, only before he could prevent himself, something slipped out.

It slipped, unpreventable. Uncontrollable, like a reflex.

"You're obviously having a bad day," he muttered to her, and she glanced at him with surprise, or even fright. Like a baby deer. Or like the idea that he might choose to say something to her that wasn't an insult had genuinely startled her. "For what it's worth, I didn't actually intend to make it worse."

"Then why did you?" she shot back.

"Fuck if I know." He glanced at his feet. "Just comes naturally."

She aimed a glare in his direction.

Then, after a moment, she swallowed.

"I told Ron I'd have dinner with him and his new girlfriend tomorrow," she grumbled, and when Draco made a face of  _my god, what possessed you_ , she added, "who, as you so helpfully pointed out, also happens to be the person who got promoted over me in the political news department at the  _Prophet_."

"Well." Draco contemplated his shoes, shrugging. "I'm essentially a Ministry drone with no prospects, romantic or otherwise, plus I have a best friend who appears to be using his massive fortune to get as close to Azkaban as he can without actually falling in."

For a second, she looked like she might have wanted to laugh.

She did not.

"In his defense," she said carefully, clearing her throat, "the bond money is probably being used for Ministry infrastructure improvements. There are worse things he could be doing."

Another two beats of silence passed.

"You don't need to be in political news to write things of value," Draco said. A reply of sorts. "Politics are just as stupid as everything else, so what does it matter?"

"Easy for you to say."

"Yeah, easy for me to say. But that doesn't make it less true."

She looked up at him, considering him.

For half a second, he wondered if she might say thank you.

She did not.

"Should I just cancel dinner, do you think?" was what she  _actually_  said, sounding faintly optimistic and clearly neck-deep in denial.

"No, certainly not," Draco reproached her, making a face. "And let Weasley believe he scared you off? No. You made that bed, Granger. Now you've got to die in it."

"The phrase is  _lie_  in it, Malfoy."

"I said what I said." Again, her mouth twitched a little with something that might have been a laugh. "And for the record," he added with a sigh, "I do actually know why we're incompatible. It's… not as mysterious to me as I may have led you to believe."

"Just felt like being shitty?" she asked, souring.

He shrugged. "Isn't that better, in the end? Otherwise you'd have to, you know." Another shrug. "Like me or something."

"Ugh." She made a face. "Save us both that particular abuse."

"With pleasure," he replied.

"Alright," Harry announced, startling them both and re-emerging with Theo in tow. "If he'd  _actually_  robbed the bank it'd be a felony," he informed Draco, "and then I could toss him over to a dementor or, at the very least, Dawlish—"

"Shudder," said Theo, shuddering.

"—but since the most I can give him is incitement, he gets the maximum fine," Harry finished. "Any questions?"

"Yes," Theo said. "How close can I get to murder before it leaves the jurisdiction of Powerless Entry-Level Auror and becomes Trial By Fire? Hypothetically speaking, of course."

"Intent," Draco and Hermione said in unison. He glanced at her, which she ignored.

"You'd have to intend to kill someone for it to be murder," Hermione clarified to Theo, "which you just confessed to not doing, and also, we don't try by fire anymore because we're a civilized society that also declines to use pitchforks. However, if you actually threatened someone with reasonable expectation of physical harm," she went on, despite Draco motioning for her to please, for the love of god,  _read the room_ , "most degrees of assault would be plenty t-"

"Please stop encouraging him," Harry advised. "Also, on a related note, leave," he added to Theo, who gave him a ruthlessly insolent smile.

Draco, meanwhile, wondered if he should say goodbye to Hermione, unsure whether their brief détente called for any sort of formal acknowledgement. After questioning silently what his mother would prescribe for the situation, he decided it was probably in their mutual interest to simply leave and pretend nothing of this evening had ever happened, and she seemed to agree.

"Been fun, Potter," Theo said. "Try not to miss me while I'm gone."

"One of these days, Nott," Harry lazily replied, "I'm going to make you wish you were never born."

"Joke's on you, that's just my average Tuesday," Theo retorted, and Draco, who was definitely going to need more alcohol in the startlingly near future, decided to be the hero of the moment and yank Theo out by the back of his upturned collar, finally ending what had been a thoroughly disastrous night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For HeartSandwich, a reliable delight; fullyvisible, whose practice of sharing a favorite line is one of my personal highlights; and kete, for the richly satisfying visual. Thank you for reading! The quote comes from the most epic comeback of all time, via The Big Lebowski: "We're going to fuck you up!" "Yeah, well, you know, that's just like, uh, your opinion, man."


	5. Screw the Lemons and Bail

**Chapter 5: Screw the Lemons and Bail**

_The subsequent evening  
23 June 2002_

Despite Harry's offer to switch shifts and stay for the dinner Hermione was hosting on behalf of her ex-boyfriend's new lover (a detail she specified thrice she had no particular feelings about despite Harry repeatedly interrogating her on the basis of her terminology, as if 'lover' were not a perfectly sensible choice of word), she was insistent his presence would be counterproductive. The point, as she reminded him with painstaking slowness, was to solidify an amicable relationship moving forward, and to ensure that both Ron Weasley and his new lover understood with unqualified certainty that neither he nor Padma were capable of affecting Hermione, her emotional well-being, or her mental stability in any way.

Now, would this impression be aided by her  _inviting along_  some arbitrary third party to cushion the blow? No, not at all, as she ranted to Harry, who had not specifically asked but had certainly implied it by virtue of opening his mouth. What more embarrassing thing could there possibly be in this wretched world than to have to  _pretend_  for the benefit of Ronald Bilius Weasley, a man who almost never owned more than two full sets of matching socks at a time and who averaged only Average on his exams? The only thing worse than hosting the dinner to begin with would be if Hermione were somehow incapable of doing so alone, which she unequivocally wasn't.

Thus, "Shut up and leave," she told Harry politely, who complied with a shrug and kiss to her cheek just before he left for his usual punishment and she attended to her own.

After a quick Floo exchange with Fleur, a woman who had dealt with Molly Weasley's marvelously snide remarks about her cooking for half a decade and was therefore happy to assist in weaponizing the art of dinner, Hermione was able to pull together an impressive but perfectly unremarkable (so Ron did not think she spent the  _entire_  day in the kitchen but merely an hour or so, as befitting a casual dinner party such as this one) Sunday roast. Kreacher, whose assistance Hermione typically refused on principle, limited himself to only one or two side comments about her choices of garnish, and by the time Ron and Padma arrived in the fireplace of 12 Grimmauld Place at a respectable five minutes past the hour, Hermione was confident she had done everything possible to ensure premium success for maximum amicability.

"Oh, you're here," she remarked with easy confidence, as if she had merely stumbled upon them in the living room and had not lain several enchantments to ensure she was alerted to their presence immediately upon arrival. Ron looked very Ron, as he often did, while Padma looked… exceptionally Padma. She was wearing a very classic shift dress, which was something Hermione might have chosen for the occasion. She herself was wearing a very classic  _wrap_ dress, which she trusted to flatter her figure without looking as if extreme effort had been undertaken.

Padma Patil was very pretty, which was something Hermione had tacitly acknowledged for many years without giving it further thought. She was neither gregariously beautiful nor ethereal like Fleur, but she had a very nice sense of polish, and an exceptional sense of what flattered her shape and complexion. Unlike her twin, Parvati, who had been Hermione's roommate for six years, Padma was very sensible and not overly enamored with beauty charms. Her hair usually fell in extremely silken raven waves Hermione might have envied if she thought hair were enough to make a woman noteworthy, but at the moment, Padma was wearing it in a low ponytail with tendrils that floated around her mostly unaccented face. The only eccentricity to her appearance was a couple of decorative bangles she wore on her wrists and a pair of silver earrings, which Hermione, much to her displeasure, silently coveted.

Padma handed over a lovely bottle of wine; Ron commented on the living room looking better than he remembered. "Perhaps you misremember," Hermione said; "Perhaps I do," he replied; and though Ron had never said the word 'perhaps' to her before and also, Hermione knew perfectly well she and Kreacher had rearranged it four times that morning and would have to put it back before Harry came home and asked questions, she was confident the evening was going to go swimmingly.

And amazingly, she was right.

"I think it's best if we just get it out of the way that the political news department is sorely lacking without you," Padma said, after remarking that Hermione's roast was the best she'd ever had and truly, Molly's wasn't nearly as flavorful, no matter what Ron's nostalgia deluded him with. "Dauntless is a spineless coward," Padma continued, helping herself to another reasonably-sized serving of Hermione's potatoes. "I think he simply interprets your voice, and the weight your opinions carry, as a threat. The Ministry wanted Hermione Granger muzzled and he was only too happy to comply. It's shameful if you ask me, but predictable. He is, after all, a man."

Hermione, surprised, looked up to find that Ron, usually inept at hiding his discomfort, appeared to find these comments unexceptional. As if that were something Padma had said to him before in private rather than something she was only saying now to get under Hermione's skin, or perhaps to persuade Hermione to sympathy. "Really?"

"Really," Padma replied bluntly. "I've had to put my foot down more than once. Personally, I try to keep to a measure of, 'Would Hermione Granger let Dauntless bully her into removing this line?', and if the answer is no, I push back."

Hermione was astounded. "I… that's quite a compliment, Padma."

"You're a talented journalist," Padma said, dismissive with her flattery, "and more importantly, a brave one. I would be pleased to collaborate with you, if you ever have the interest—I'd really rather my career not simply peak with middling editorial approval," she qualified with a laugh. "Personally, I'd like to receive the Order of Merlin before I'm thirty, and why do it alone if it could be done quicker with someone whose abilities I trust?"

Achieving the Order of Merlin, awarded for exceptional contributions to the wizarding world, for an investigatory piece was a reporter's dream. "We'd be the youngest female journalists to ever win," Hermione said, and then, thinking better of it, "Actually, we might very well be the  _only_  female journalists to ever win."

Padma nodded shrewdly. "Unacceptable, don't you think? So if anything ever crosses your desk that may be of interest for a longer piece than a little  _Prophet_  article, then…" She shrugged. "Please do consider me."

"Padma," Hermione said, genuinely pleased, "I would be more than happy t-"

"Mione, this is delicious," Ron announced through a mouthful of Yorkshire pudding, having clearly not been listening. "Is this onion gravy, or—"

"Ron, please," Padma sighed, rolling her eyes at Hermione across the table as she gave one of her potatoes a dainty stab. "His table manners are atrocious, aren't they? And it's obviously got a nice bit of leek."

"It is leek," Hermione confirmed, impressed. "Do you cook often? This wine is perfect, by the way," she added, which was something she had not wanted earlier to admit, but now saw no fault in doing.

"Do you like it? I'm so pleased, I was a bit nervous," Padma admitted. "I was actually going to bring you an apple crisp, as I prefer to bake, but then Ron said you didn't care for desserts—"

"Did he? What an idiot," Hermione said, giving him a glare, and Padma laughed. "In what world do I not care for dessert?"

"I should have known he was wrong, it sounded like a mad thing to say… Imagine, a woman not liking dessert, honestly. I can just pop back and get it. Or, actually," Padma said, glancing first at Ron and then Hermione, "why don't you just join us?"

Hermione frowned as Ron's entire face flushed. "I'm sorry?"

"At Ron's open mic night," Padma clarified, despite what appeared to be Ron's attempt to silence her. "What? It'll be more fun for me if she comes along," Padma told him firmly. "And anyway, you may as well just fess up, Harry'll hear about it soon enough—"

"What?" Hermione said, fighting a laugh. "You're not… Ron. Surely you're not some sort of comic now, are you?" she asked him, finding that to be just about the most bewildering thing she'd ever heard and suddenly owing an enormous debt of gratitude to Padma for informing her.

"It's just for laughs," he mumbled, not quite looking at her. "Some of the lads at work suggested we try it and, I don't know, it's quite fun, it's nothing serious—"

"It's incredibly tragic is what it is," Padma told Hermione, looking positively devilish as she gave Ron a little wink. "Ron's not so bad—you know how he is, thinks he's hysterical and about half the time he's half-right—but my god, the others are just… you  _must_  see it. You absolutely  _must_ ," she repeated emphatically. "You can sit with me in the back and heckle."

To Hermione's surprise, it wasn't very difficult to say yes.

She and Padma ordered another round of drinks as they took their seats near the back of a cramped little club in Diagon, a hellish sort of place in the day that Padma made look quite cool. She picked out the finest of the club's atrocious whisky selection and immediately began cheekily pointing out who was who: the Warlock with a woman who wasn't his wife in the corner, the jazz musician up at the front who sometimes played a fantastic set late on Saturdays, the cocktail waiter with star potential who brought them their drinks.

"Ron's actually not so bad," Padma confessed, giving Hermione a conspiratorial smile. "Not that I'd ever say it to his face. He gets so smug if you acknowledge the smallest of skills."

Hermione had to admit that Ron's set did have a very compelling start.

"Yes, hello, I'm Ron Weasley," he said, staring blearily into the bright club spotlight as Padma and Hermione each let out a small whoop. "Yes, yes, thank you—that's actually my girlfriend and my ex-girlfriend back there drinking together," he informed the crowd, who all collectively turned to glance at them and laughed. "And that's not even part of my set, if you can believe it. That's just Sunday night, apparently. Nothing to see here!"

Hermione was surprised to see Ron so at ease with the crowd, though she supposed he had been the most popular of their little triumvirate. Harry was beloved, of course, being the star Seeker and all that, but he was also often yelling about Voldemort or cheating at Potions and therefore had a tendency to put some people off from time to time. Ron was more friendly, perfectly affable, generally harmless.

"So, some of you know who I am, I suppose. You're probably sitting there thinking, 'What's that speckly git doing on a mic? Bloke's got no jokes, look at him.' Well, I'll tell you something, folks. You don't get to be the sixth of seven children with a face like this one and hair like mine and not have jokes, just as a sort of apology to mankind. My condolences to any other freckled gingers in the audience, but it's true. You may as well own it now and find a celebrity best mate as a consolation prize, because I can guarantee not one woman present is picturing you naked. If she is, run. She wants to chain you to the bathtub and make you reenact her childhood. Don't ask me how I know that, either, as I don't particularly want to recount my last visit to the dentist. My dentist didn't do that to me, by the way, just to be clear. I just hate getting my teeth cleaned. Just fill in the cavities and fuck off, I say—which is coincidentally what my last blind date said to me during the bathtub incident."

"How's the whisky?" Padma asked, leaning over to whisper in Hermione's ear. "Dreadful, I know, but how dreadful?"

Hermione took another sip, considering it. "You know how Dauntless occasionally comes into work wearing that bizarre cycling unitard? Tastes a bit like looking at that feels," she said, and Padma stifled a giggle.

"What, so like a guilty pleasure?"

"More like 'revolting, but can't look away,'" Hermione said, and Padma hastily covered her mouth.

"Alright, let's get into the set, which I like to call… my Hogwarts education," Ron continued. "Did everyone here go to Hogwarts? Yes, yes, looks like everyone in the audience, so we're all on the same page then. Let's start with this, year two: Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, better known to us meddling kids as Nearly Headless Nick. Now, I should tell you that I am deeply unimportant, just as a student and also as a man, but of course some of you may know I had a mate other people seemed to find… let's say… of public interest. Where am I going with this? It means I sometimes got invited to unusual events, like, say, what I thought for many years would be my unavoidable and certain death. In this particular case—not totally unrelated, I might add—it was a deathday party, and yes, you did hear that correctly. If you're ever invited to one, try to be busy that day, if at all possible. Just advice from one speckly git to another—I'm only trying to make sure we live our best ginger lives."

"Does he do the same set every time?" Hermione whispered to Padma, who shrugged.

"Essentially, yes, I think? He changes things a bit from time to time, but one thing I can say for the three of you being friends for so long is that he does have very good material." She raised her glass to her lips, half-smiling. "He does a bit about the Yule Ball that's pretty funny, mostly because he cleverly admits to being a massive git."

The moment that Padma took a sip of her whisky, something very interesting happened.

Her bangle slid down her arm, attracting Hermione's attention to the inside of her wrist.

"—is no one going to comment on the ghosts, by the way? No school governors have ever been like, 'Hey, maybe there's something to be done about these ghosts?' No? That's not a priority? I mean Nick I understand, he's obviously a mate, but the Grey Lady was  _murdered by the Bloody Baron_ , and do we really not think, 'Oi, that's a hell of an outcome,' hm? Like, imagine for example my girlfriend murders me, right?—Not entirely out of the realm of possibility, love you sweetheart, you're very pretty—and  _then_ , after that—how would she do it? Did someone ask that? No, they didn't, but for the record, you know, while it's on the mind, she'd do something very clever but dramatic, push me off a cliff or something, and to be honest, I'd not even question why we were on a cliff. I'm sure she'd have that all planned out and honestly, I'm not fussed, the entire holiday preceding my death would be perfectly lovely—and anyway, she and I have to spend all eternity with each other and a bunch of prepubescent children. Is that… I mean, is that not troubling? Is no one here troubled? It makes all the rest of our punishments seem tame, don't you think? Oh, sure, Azkaban, soul-sucking, terrible… but have you ever imagined spending the rest of your afterlife with your ex?"

The 95% glowing from Padma's wrist distracted Hermione for so long that Padma herself glanced down at it, half-laughing.

"Oh, yes, I noticed earlier," Padma murmured, leaning in again. "I didn't know you were bisexual?"

"I'm…" The word  _not_  came to mind, but at the moment, Hermione wasn't entirely sure she was confident about that. "You're bisexual?" she asked instead, and Padma shrugged in apparent confirmation.

"I typically date men, probably because I'm an idiot." She laughed at something Ron said, though Hermione was no longer listening to him. "Anyway, it's not that surprising, is it?" she asked, turning back to Hermione. "We're very compatible. Surely it's obvious."

It was now, but Hermione hadn't necessarily thought of it that way. "I guess I expected there to be more, er. Friction between us."

Surely friction had not been the  _ideal_  choice of words, and yet there they were.

"Honestly, I find it so stupid that we shouldn't be friends," Padma said. "Don't you think? Such a primitive view of womanhood, that just because we have Ron in common we should hate each other or something."

That much was true. In fact, Hermione could not help thinking through the rest of the evening that she and Padma had more in common with each other than Hermione had ever had with Ron,  _and_  it was apparently more than Padma had with him, too.

He'd said he and Padma were 93% compatible, hadn't he?

93% was less than 95%.

The arithmetic involved was distressingly simple. It should have been a single calculation—93 < 95, there, done, sorted—only Hermione could bring herself to think of little else until she arrived home around midnight, where a smug-looking snowy owl was waiting for her.

_How was dinner?_

The note was unsigned, though judging by the swooping calligraphy, there was only one person it could be.

She scribbled a quick response, charming it through the Floo, and sat down in her chair, contemplating things.

95%.

Perhaps it was coincidence, but then again…

Perhaps a series of coincidences was all fate had ever been.

* * *

The evening had begun with a visit to Pansy's. Not, surprisingly, for sex, but for… a matter of legal expertise, or so she firmly requested. Draco had brought Theo along, mostly to keep him out of trouble. Also, because Theo had read more magical law books, and most importantly, because whatever was going on, Draco did not particularly want to be involved.

They arrived in the study of Pansy's manor house to find the entire room stacked high with legal books, from which she emerged so suddenly Draco and Theo briefly clutched each other upon entry. "WE HOUSED A DARK LORD, YOU MANIAC," was Theo's take on the subject. "YOU CAN'T GO LEAPING OUT OF SHADOWS."

"Calm down," said Pansy, who appeared not to have slept for at least three days. Her black hair, usually twisted neatly or plaited, was in complete disarray, half piled on her head and half sticking out like fraying rope above her clavicle, and her shirt was inside out.

"What happened to your hair?" Draco asked.

"Cut it off," she said. "Made the back of my neck itchy."

"What?"

"My mother wanted long hair, not me, and that's not important. What's important is this: REVENGE," she declared triumphantly. "Oh, Nott," she added, glancing between them as if that were intended to clear up any comprehension problems. "Good."

"You know, at first I wondered why Draco brought me along, but now it seems fairly straightforward," Theo remarked, having recovered from his fright and begun picking up the various law books. "Who are we avenging?"

"Revenging," Pansy corrected. "And to answer your question, a man."

"Always men," Theo scoffed, as Pansy sniffed her agreement and Draco, completely at a loss, sighed.

"Is this still about that man you have a crush on, or—"

"Does this look like the behavior of a woman with a crush?" Pansy demanded, waving her hand around the room while Theo gave Draco a look of smug disbelief, as if Draco should have somehow known better than to say something so acutely stupid. "No, Draco, my intent is to destroy him, and I've sorted out how to do it."

"I'm always game for destruction," contributed Theo, in what would surely become the title of the biopic about his unavoidable murder. "How can we be of service?"

"I'm suing my father for access to my inheritance," Pansy said, handing Theo a bulky file of documents and notes. "I need your help filing the proper motions with the Wizengamot to gain control of my family's financial estate."

"Oh, perfect, easy," said Theo, as Draco demanded, "WHAT?"

"Hm?" said Pansy, vacantly. "Which part?"

"In what world is this a vengeance plot?" Draco clarified, once it became obvious he was going to be the only one to ask such a highly pertinent question.

"Again, that's really not important right now, Draco," Pansy informed him. "I need to file before midnight to expedite the Wizengamot hearing, so we really ought to get to work."

"Have you—" Draco paused, sputtering. "Have you even got a case, or…?"

"Oh, she's got a case," Theo said, having apparently looked over Pansy's notes already. "This is the latest copy of your father's will?"

"Yes, from when I came of age."

"Well, this is very persuasive evidence," Theo informed her, which Pansy rewarded with a satisfied smirk. "Your argument, I presume, turns on your father's mental health?"

"Yes, which everyone knows has deteriorated substantially since the war—"

"I just don't understand," Draco began, only to be interrupted by Theo.

"Parkinson appointed Pansy executor and sole heir in the event of his death," Theo supplied slowly, as if Draco's confusion had been remotely related to the last will and testament of the elder Parkinson rather than the more obvious mystery about Pansy's efforts to get laid. "If she declares him financially incompetent, all the money goes to her."

"Yes, but how does—" Draco blinked. "Wait. What?"

"It's really very simple, Draco. My father is forbidding me to marry without his permission, therefore withholding access to my inheritance. But his permission is reliant on his completely unsound judgment," Pansy said, as Theo nodded his unnecessary confirmation that this was, in fact, true. "Ipso facto, my father controls my financial future unless I intervene."

"But your mother—"

"Written out," Theo said, holding up the will. "Only Pansy stands to inherit."

"But—"

"Financially incompetent," Pansy supplied with a manic smile, "or so my father already helpfully established in my teens—which is what she gets for sleeping around during their marriage, it seems," she muttered, before adding firmly, "If the psychological evaluation leans in my favor, I'm the only one in my family who can legally control our estate."

"Okay," Draco said uncertainly, "but Pansy—"

"It's not as if my father works for a living," Pansy said. "I'm entitled to that money as much as he is, if not more. I run the house now, I'm essentially his caretaker,  _and_  I'm the one who took over his patronages—"

"Sure, I know, but—"

"Hush, Draco, the adults are working," Theo said, having already begun filling out the appropriate forms. "Are you representing yourself, Pansy?"

"I was going to find a lawyer," Pansy said, "unless you'd like to do it?"

"Hang on," Draco interrupted. "Are you sure that's—"

"I'd be happy to," Theo said.

"Nott, you can't just—"

"Draco, not that I should have to remind you, but I'm licensed to practice law by the DMLE," Theo informed him impatiently. "Don't you remember?"

" _No_ ," Draco growled, "I do not rememb-"

"What did you think I was doing going to school for three extra years alongside you, hm? Just twiddling my thumbs, embracing havoc, driving everyone around me to a slow and torturous death?"

"Yes, that's exactly what I thought you were doing!"

"Anyway, as we were saying—"

Eventually, when it became obvious Draco's rationality was a limitation on the endeavors of the other two, his mind began to wander to other things; namely, the previous night's encounter with Hermione Granger. The sudden recollection that she was probably having an equally difficult evening filled him with an immense curiosity, and also a bit of twisted mirth. He struggled with the sensation for an hour, perhaps two, but once the grappa he'd drunk while waiting for Theo and Pansy to finish their paperwork had settled in, Draco decided perhaps he would ask her how the whole thing had gone.

Three words was sufficient.  _How was dinner?_

Her Floo response, which coincided with his return home, was positively inane.

_Who is this?_

He considered not responding, as surely she knew precisely who he was and was just being difficult, but by then grappa had turned into whisky and he wanted an answer, however annoying her response had been.

 _It's Draco,_  he said, gritting his teeth as he added  _Malfoy_ just in case, and then followed it up with,  _Surely you didn't tell anyone else about your dumbest idea of the century._

Her response was a perfunctory ten minutes later.

_As the century just started, I think I'm doing fine. Though, I will say dinner was very interesting._

He frowned.  _Interesting? Surely that's not the word you intended. Traumatizing, perhaps? You_ _were_   _eating in Weasley's presence…_

This time, only five minutes.  _Actually, I haven't quite decided what to think. I don't suppose you'd want to meet in person, would you? Harry's not home and I'm driving myself mad thinking about it._

He hardly thought she had any wiggle room left in the 'going mad' department.

 _What,_  he wrote,  _now?_

 _Yes,_ she replied in about two minutes.  _Drinks at the Leaky?_

He could not imagine what made her suggest it, or what compelled him to agree. He thought perhaps he would later blame the obvious fact that it must have been quite strange indeed for her to want to discuss it with  _him_ , of all people. He told her he would allow one drink if she agreed to keep her hands to herself and she said something equating roughly to suck my dick Malfoy, and then he was through the Floo and in Diagon, approaching her where she sat at the bar.

"You're disgusting," was her opening line, which he appreciated. Saved them the awkwardness of pleasantries. "I don't even know what I'm doing here."

"Well, that makes two of us," he said, glancing at her wrist. 27%—for the love of Satan's unholy balls. He shook his head, then seated himself on the stool beside her, noting the sparsity of patronage (and the absence of sobriety) at that time of night. "I'm happy to deny this ever happened if anyone asks."

"Good." She slid a whisky towards him and he did not say thank you, as he was fairly confident acknowledging the gesture would only insult them both. "Any chance you'll be bailing out Nott tonight?"

"Not tonight. Other havoc awaits for the remainder of the evening, I suspect."

"Well, lucky for Harry, then." She toyed with her glass, drumming her fingers on the counter. "What do you think about sex with women?"

"I'm in favor," Draco said, raising his glass to his lips for a testing sip.

"Not you," she corrected him, "me."

He promptly choked on the swallow, coughing up half his esophagus. Hermione glanced at him wearily.

"Can you not?"

"Me?" he sputtered. "Are you serious?"

"It's a question, Malfoy."

"I—" He couldn't imagine how he had gotten drunk enough in the last hour to imagine Hermione Granger unironically asking him if she should experiment with her previously unconsidered sexuality. "Do you…  _want_  to have sex with women?"

"Not women generally," she said. "One woman, specifically."

This was not helping. Not in the least. "Dinner with Weasley was so bad you're considering lesbianism?"

"Not lesbianism, Malfoy, just one woman. Sort of a sapiosexuality thing."

"Well, if it's asexual, then what's the point of—"

"I didn't say asexual, I said sapiosexual. Intellectual stimulation."

"Okay, now I  _know_  you're not talking about dinner with Weasley," Draco said, deciding to solve the problem with more alcohol as he took another sip.

"Well, that's the thing. Dinner was fine," Hermione said evasively. "It was quite good, really, only…" A pause. "I just think, possibly," she ventured, " _I'm_  the one who's meant to be with his girlfriend instead of him."

Alright. That was enough of that.

"No," Draco said loudly. "No. Nope. No." He rotated his stool to face hers, sliding the whisky out of her reach and shaking his head as she immediately opened her mouth in protest. "You don't deserve this, Granger, I'm taking it away. You're being unreasonable."

"You're being a dick!" she shot back, lurching for the glass, which he firmly held out of reach.

"Is it because of the percentible?" he demanded, and she glared at him.

"Malfoy, that's not even a word—"

"OF COURSE IT ISN'T," he calmly replied, "and for you to treat it like it's a real thing is equally if not more stupid, and totally undeserving of this whisky."

He aimed her glass towards his mouth, threatening to drink it himself, and her jaw wired shut.

"Malfoy," she gritted angrily, "don't even think about it."

He swirled the whisky, ignoring her.

"Malfoy, I swear, if you drink that—"

He brought the glass to his lips, about to take a sip, and she growled with fury, knocking it from his hand and onto the floor.

"Granger, what the honest fuck—"

She cast a spell quickly, probably wandlessly, and caught the refilled glass in her hand, glaring at him. "It's not because of the… the  _percent compatibility_ ," she informed him moodily. "It's… well, it's not entirely that."

He slid her a narrow-eyed glance, and she sighed.

"Fine, it's 95%," she admitted, and at his scowl, she repeated, "Ninety-five! Are you hearing me, Malfoy?  _Ninety_.  _Five_. Ninety-five! Nin-"

"Yes, fine, I get it," he muttered, "which, I take it, must make your compatibility with Weasley look positively atrocious—"

"It does," she confirmed, " _and_  it's higher than his compatibility with her. And, more importantly, she's smart. Pretty." She took a sip of her stolen whisky. "Elegant. Refined. Ambitious. Smart—"

" _Boring_ ," Draco groaned, raising a hand to his temple. "Are you hiring a governess?"

She appeared to mostly ignore him. "I suppose the part I'm trying to work out is whether all this time, I've been looking for the wrong thing," she said, tilting her head in consideration. "I do frequently have high percentages with women, though none quite this persuasive." She took another pensive sip, sighing. "I mean… is it possible I'm supposed to be with Padma Patil?"

"That's who it is?" Draco asked, frowning with surprise. "But she's…"

He trailed off, unsure what he wanted to say.

"She's what?" Hermione prompted unhelpfully. "You don't like her?"

"No, I didn't say that—"

"Too bad," she said drily, "as that would be a compelling reason for me to like her more."

Draco shot her an irritable glance. "Really, Granger? Is this a friendly drink or isn't it?"

"I really don't think I specified a  _friendly_  drink. It's just a drink, without any obligation to be friendly."

"Well, in that case, I think she's out of your league," Draco informed her, which was not initially what he planned to say, but what felt right at that particular moment. "Patil's a former Prefect, she got all Os on her N.E.W.T.s, and she's not bad looking—"

"Reminder that she's currently dating  _Ron_ ," Hermione said, and they both grimaced.

"Point you," he conceded, tallying it on an imaginary board. "Much as I hate to say it, even I would have to mark you as the objectively better choice."

" _Objectively_  better?" she echoed, displeased.

"Well, you can't seriously be thinking of trying to steal your ex-boyfriend's current girlfriend," Draco said, and then, reconsidering the sort of behavior he'd already witnessed, he paused to question it further. "Wait— _is_  that what you're trying to do?"

Hermione chewed her lip. "I don't know," she said, which was at least better than a yes, but still not nearly a good answer.

For whatever reason, it drove him to something of an… irk. Like an itch.

"Well, if you ask me, you should definitely stay away," he advised, draining what was left of his glass and rising to his feet. "And  _I'm_  saying that," he clarified, "as someone who isn't your friend and who barely even cares about you. Just an objective third party who thinks you probably shouldn't do something stupid."

"I'm fairly brilliant, Malfoy," Hermione informed him, shrugging. "Stupidity is not usually one of my concerns."

God, she wasn't even bragging. She was just  _like that_. It was almost funny, like her security in her intellect was some sort of nervous tic to fall back on.

It was wild how much he didn't hate it.

"Well, see you next time you do something dumb, I guess," he said, aiming himself in the direction of the Leaky Cauldron's Floo. He didn't necessarily want to leave, but he figured it was best if he took control of the situation. No need to let things go on until one or both of them said something to ruin it.

"See you then," Hermione agreed, glancing down at her glass and thinking about cunnilingus or something with Padma Patil while Draco made his way across the room, restlessly unsettled.

* * *

A very strange thing happened to Hermione after the dinner she had with Ron and Padma.

Well, not immediately after, though the drink she'd had with Draco was mostly bizarre in that it didn't feel particularly noteworthy; as if having a drink with her former archnemesis was so unremarkable compared to everything else going on it barely registered on her scale of weirdness. Hermione mostly went about the rest of her week in a sort of haze, trying to figure out what it might have meant that she and Padma were so compatible.

 _You aren't harassing Patil, are you?_  came a paper bird through her Floo on Monday afternoon.  _Seriously, don't do it._

 _I'm not harassing anyone, Malfoy,_  she replied,  _and shouldn't you be doing… something?_

 _Actually,_  came his response,  _I just came back from a lovely afternoon out of the office. Someone released a small herd of doxies into a muggle pasture and now all of the cows require obliviation._

 _Why on earth would the cows need to have their memories modified?_ Hermione asked, bewildered.  _Is the Ministry concerned they may report what they've seen to the police?_

 _Well I don't know if you know this, Granger, but doxies have mild hypnotic tendencies,_  he replied.  _It appears the cows have been performing some sort of synchronized dance whenever anyone says the word "milk," and the muggles are all in a stir about it._

On Tuesday, she sent a little origami owl to him:  _More dancing cows today?_

_Today, Granger, I was sent to deal with an unregistered animagus._

_Does that count as a magical accident?_ Hermione asked.  _Seems like the sort of thing that has to happen on purpose._

 _The animagus part, yes,_ Draco replied.  _But his wife swallowing him in mosquito form was really rather unintended._

Wednesday was quite busy. Hermione had gone to meet Lily Moon to follow up on their previous piece, catching her just as a ruffled Bastien Queensbury was leaving.

"What was that?" Hermione asked, observing Lily's scowl in the reflection of her vanity as Bastien grumpily vacated the dressing room. "I thought you didn't want anything to do with him."

"I don't," Lily replied tightly, "but he insists. Anyway," she said, shaking herself of the encounter and adjusting her lipstick, "you won't mention him, will you?"

"Of course not," Hermione said. "Again, I'm not sure what relevance he has to your tour, so in terms of—"

"Good," Lily muttered, tousling her blonde curls and glancing at Hermione in her reflection. "I do really appreciate that you don't press me about, you know. My clothes or my boyfriends," she said, looking surprisingly sincere. "It's a refreshing change."

"You're a musician," Hermione reminded her. "Isn't everything else rather… irrelevant?"

"Yes, very," Lily confirmed, turning to face her. "By the way, I read your piece in the  _Prophet_  about the Sacred School."

Hermione frowned, unsure for a moment what Lily was talking about. "Oh, that? I don't know if I'd call it a piece," she qualified, thinking of the six hundred words covering the auction. "I was just noting the event's cancellation."

"Oh, I don't think it was just that. What did you say… something about thanking all the volunteers for their efforts toward a 'lovely breeding ground for inequity'?" Lily recited, half-smiling. "You're not wrong."

"Didn't you attend the school?" Hermione asked, and Lily shrugged.

"Well, I was afforded every luxury, wasn't I? Most people don't get to where I am at this age without someone to give them a boost. I can acknowledge that, can't I, without it diminishing everything I've done?" she said, which was quite impressive to Hermione. "Besides, I may have had someone show me to the door, but I still had to open it myself."

"May I mention that you said that?" Hermione asked. "I think it'd be quite nice to give the impression you're not just an ingenue who got lucky, but a woman who played it smart. You know," she clarified, "if there are young girls out there who look to you as an example?"

Lily paused to consider it, nodding slowly. "I suppose I'd never thought of it that way. Sure, go ahead," she said, before the two of them discussed the Glasgow leg of her tour.

Hermione received two owls that day from Draco, both of which Gladys had attempted to hand to her several times before realizing her incorporeality was the problem. The first was fairly straightforward:  _Haven't gone mad today, have you? I'm starting to feel as if your sanity is my responsibility somehow._

The second, however, was less so:  _I don't suppose you'd want to have an unfriendly lunch tomorrow?_

 _Pre-empting the answer in the form of a question is a very feminine move,_  Hermione wrote back.  _It's like you're apologizing before you've even said the thing._

His response:  _Are you mansplaining the female experience to me? For your information, it's my mother who taught me to be polite._

Hers:  _Was she very busy during your Hogwarts years?_

Him:  _HILARIOUS, Granger. Is that a yes?_

 _It's not a no,_  she replied.  _Noon?_

_Provided nobody explodes? Not a no._

They ended up meeting halfway between their respective offices. She had thirty minutes before an interview with a popular romance publisher, and he had just returned from what he informed her was going to be that year's outbreak of pixie flu. "I'd offer you a vaccine, you know, perks of the job, but you're probably already infected just being near me," he informed her. "Congratulations."

"I agreed to an unfriendly lunch, not an infectious one," she told him. "By the way, your tie's crooked."

"Impossible," he scoffed. "I have an enchantment for that."

"Well, it's on the fritz," she told him, pointing to it. "Is it silk? Could be the humidity. I find that with certain materials the static can sometimes get in the way."

"It  _is_  silk, because I am not an animal," he informed her, gesturing gruffly for her to sit as he fiddled self-consciously with his tie. "Staying out of trouble, then?"

"You may recall I managed to stay out of trouble for years before you came along," Hermione informed him, though his arched brow unfortunately reminded her that wasn't entirely true. "You know what I mean," she muttered, and he gave her something of an irritating smile.

"Well, it's just that you're so very unhinged," Draco said. "You can't blame me for checking in."

"So it's an unfriendly check-in, is it?"

"That's the one," he agreed. "I'd hate for you to cause some sort of magical malady I'd have to recount in an official capacity."

"Speaking of," Hermione said, "I actually had dinner with Harry last night. Has Nott lost his taste for chaos?"

"If he has, prayer works," Draco replied, "though I think he's currently helping Pansy with something."

"Helping," Hermione echoed doubtfully.

"Oh, he can be very helpful," Draco assured her. "It's the worst part of him, how unpredictably decent he can be. It makes it so I can't kill him," he sighed, "because then he might not help me arrange my furniture and really, who has the time to make new friends."

"So true," said Hermione, whose own capacity for amicability was deeply limited. "I think that was my point in organizing that stupid dinner with Ron, actually," she realized. "Because making another friend just sounds exhausting."

"Well, I'm sure the two of you can be friends again eventually," Draco said. "For example, in your old age, or on your deathbeds."

"I'm just not sure we were ever friends? Not like it was with either of us and Harry," Hermione said. "Harry's both our best friends, I think, and then when it came to Ron and me, we were either in love or we were fighting."

"Revolting. Truly, upsetting on so many levels," Draco said, "but ultimately understandable, I suppose."

They parted, each moving onto their respective tasks, and then on Friday, the strange thing happened. The day started out normal enough, with another message from Draco:  _Don't be weird today, I don't have time to fix you. Pansy's got some sort of expedited court date and I'm supposed to be present for moral support, or possibly to make sure Theo doesn't accidentally annex France while he's lawyering._

 _I don't require fixing,_ Hermione replied,  _and also, don't tell me what to do. Good luck with the trial, vive la révolution, etc etc._

Shortly thereafter, though, she heard Gladys croaking for her attention.

"HERBERT! HERBERT, IT'S YOUR WIFE, SHE KNOWS!"

"I'm so sorry," Hermione said, bustling out of her office to ensure whoever it was—Dauntless, probably—wasn't being accosted by a hysterical ghost. "Gladys, it's fine, my wife remains totally in the dark, and—oh," she said, realizing that it was actually Padma waiting for her outside her office door, wearing a very cool pair of wide-legged trousers with a cropped blazer. "Padma, hi."

She suddenly became very conscious of her hair and whether it was or wasn't (hopefully was) suitably smooth.

"Hi, do you have a minute?" Padma asked her, half-frowning at Gladys and mouthing behind one concealed hand,  _What's that all about?_

Hermione glanced at Padma's wrist: unadorned, except for the glowing 95%. While a little piece of Hermione was apprehensive, another piece was glad. She liked Padma. Padma had come to visit.

Objectively speaking, these were facts.

"Gladys, this is my mistress, not my wife," Hermione told her, as Padma fought a laugh. "Don't worry, our secret's still safe, but do let me know if anyone calls."

She beckoned wryly for Padma to come in, offering her a seat. "Sorry about my tarty receptionist," she said, observing Padma's glance around her office. "Did you need something?"

"Hm? Yes, actually, I wanted to talk to you about some of the work you've got going on," Padma said. "I was serious when I suggested collaborating, and then I came across this Wizengamot bill." She dug around a file for a moment, summoning a sheet of parchment and handing it to Hermione. "I thought… political think-pieces usually aren't very compelling on their own, but maybe if we ran with a public interest spin?" she suggested. "Your piece this week on Lily Moon and opportunity was so interesting I thought maybe we could bounce off that."

The page was a copy of an upcoming bill regarding early magical identifiers. "If children are identified with advanced magic early, they're eligible for Ministry benefits… stipends, tax breaks, specialized education…" Hermione frowned, scanning the page and murmuring some of it aloud. "But only magical families would even know to look for signs, and only wealthy families can afford the tests?"

"Exactly," Padma said, with a curt nod. "Institutional inequity, like you said. Anyway, I don't want to keep you," she added, rising to her feet, "but… think about it. If we do a piece that gets the right attention, we might help draft some better legislation. And I don't know if you've ever thought to run for office, but this could be one way in."

"I…" Hermione hadn't considered it as a possibility before, but Padma made it seem so obvious. "Really?"

"Why not? This Ministry's full of cowards and idiots." She flashed Hermione a wry half-smile, rising to her feet. "Look over the file over the weekend, would you? We can chat Monday," she said, pausing with her hand on the door. "I'll give you some time to think about it."

But before Hermione could think about it, the strange thing happened.

She had stayed at the office late, poring over Padma's notes, and perhaps that's why it happened. Hermione didn't typically fall asleep over her desk, but it had been a long week already, and Padma was thorough.

 _Very_  thorough.

"I'm going to work you all night," Padma whispered in Hermione's ear, her hands pressing into Hermione's waist as she backed her against the desk. "And when I'm through with you, you'll be begging for more."

"I… we shouldn't," Hermione said, gasping as Padma's fingers drifted under her skirt. "It's… it's unprofessional, and Ron—"

"What Ron doesn't know can't hurt him," came a voice behind Hermione's head as she closed her eyes, leaning back. "Can it?"

"Not at all," Padma murmured, sliding Hermione's skirt up her thighs as another pair of hands reached around, removing the buttons of Hermione's blouse one by one. "In fact," Padma said, brushing her lips against the lace of Hermione's knickers, "I think he'd be pleased to know we're all getting along so well."

"So true," drawled Draco Malfoy's voice in Hermione's ear, his mouth grazing her clavicle while Padma's tongue slid gingerly against the lace. "We're all being so very…  _amicable_ , aren't we?"

Which was around the time Hermione shot upright with a start, realizing she'd fallen asleep over Padma's notes.

"Holy shit," she said aloud.

Then, when her pulse finally slowed, she reached for a quill.

_Padma. Let's do it._

* * *

Among Theo's most distressing qualities was how very stupid he wasn't. He made a very effective lawyer, getting Pansy's family attorney to accidentally confess to Pansy's mother's ineptitude and also deftly poking a full-scale pureblood tantrum out of Pansy's father that would surely make headline news the next day, requiring his removal from the chambers.

Draco wasn't entirely sure what he was doing there, aside from making sure neither of the other two burned the Wizengamot down. He supposed he was at least partially curious about the outcome, but he also sort of wished he had a better way of conveying to Hermione what was happening ( _They've called Percy Weasley as a witness, remember him? Thought he got spontaneously swallowed up by his own Head Boy badge or something but evidently not_ ) without sending an owl flying in and out of the room.

"Mr Weasley," Theo began, "could you please state your name and occupation for the court's records?"

"Percy Weasley, Auditor for the Office of Revenue and Customs, Department of Magical Law Enforcement," replied Percy stiffly, which prompted a nudge to Draco's formerly dormant memory.

_It's back to the Ministry again. Revenue and customs this time._

"Hang on," Draco whispered, leaning forward to poke Pansy in the shoulder where she sat in the plaintiff's seat. "When you said revenge, please tell me you didn't mean—"

"Please be quiet, Draco, this is an official Wizengamot proceeding," she hissed, sitting upright in her chair and staring, hawkishly expectant, at the red-haired man on the stand.

"Is this your report after meeting with Miss Parkinson?" Theo asked Percy, holding it up, and then, upon confirmation, he turned to the Warlock. "With Your Excellency's permission, I would like to submit Mr Weasley's official audit paperwork as Exhibit F."

The Warlock nodded, and Theo continued, "Now, Mr Weasley, isn't it true you suspected the Parkinson account of having tax discrepancies?"

"I was instructed to audit the Parkinson family," Percy said uncomfortably. "As the report indicates, I did not find anything substantial."

Theo pivoted on his heel. "What  _did_  you find?"

"Well, Miss Parkinson represented her father's estate, which was… unusual," Percy said, glancing at Pansy and quickly looking away. "I indicated to her that I should have been speaking with her father."

"And what did she say?" Theo asked.

"She said—" Percy's cheeks reddened. "Well, she said if I'd been speaking to her father I would…" The rest was lost in a mumble.

"I beg your pardon, Mr Weasley? Louder, please."

"She said—" Percy sighed. "She said if I'd been speaking to her father I'd find the view considerably less pleasing."

"And did you?" Theo asked neutrally. "Find the view pleasing."

"I—" Percy cleared his throat, glancing at the Warlock. "Your Honor, is this relevant?"

"It's pertinent to my line of questioning," Theo explained.

"But it's private," Percy insisted. "Surely the plaintiff would prefer I not… divulge the details of our conversation?"

"I'll allow it," Pansy said briskly.

"You see? Overruled," Theo informed Percy, and the Warlock pursed his lips in displeasure.

"You're on thin ice, Counsel. If you have a point, make it," the Warlock instructed, and Theo gave him a particularly tickled Theo smile, jauntily himself.

"Well, Mr Weasley? And please do bear in mind you're under oath."

"Ah. Well." Percy's cheeks were flaming scarlet. "I… did find it pleasing. Her," he amended quickly, horrified with himself. "Her, she was… Well, the plaintiff is obviously very pretty."

This, Draco thought, was clearly about to take a turn.

"So you find the plaintiff attractive," Theo prompted, and Percy swallowed hard.

"Well, I… yes, but that had nothing to do with my official ruling on the subject. You'll see in my notes that I merely questioned her father's fitness to manage his own estate, but outside of that there was no bias on my p-"

"Mr Weasley, is it or isn't it true that you are attracted to the plaintiff, Miss Parkinson?" Theo asked, throwing a hand out in reference to Pansy.

"Your Honor," Percy protested uncomfortably, "surely this is… extraneous to the case? I've already discussed my findings in my report, and—"

"I have to agree, Mr Weasley. Counsel, if you don't have a relevant point to make, I'm going to have to hold you in contempt of court," the Warlock informed Theo, whose face took on a deeply troubling look of exuberance.

"Contempt," Theo echoed. "Correct me if I'm mistaken, Your Honor, but is that, by chance… an arrest?"

Inwardly, Draco groaned.

"Yes, Counsel," the Warlock warned. "I will have you arrested if you cannot behave in a manner befitting this courtroom."

"Well, my goodness, let's get to it, then," Theo said, openly delighted. "Mr Weasley, having been asked to bear witness to the plaintiff's financial records, would you agree she shows sufficient competence to manage her father's estate?"

"Yes, of course, I said in my report—"

"Objection!" called the defense. "This witness is not a credible expert on the subject of financial competence."

"Sustained," said the Warlock. "Watch yourself, Counsel."

"Fine, withdrawn, so stricken. Mr Weasley, do you agree," Theo continued, "having borne witness to the proceedings at hand, the defendant does  _not_  show sufficient competence, having displayed both untenable prejudice and insufficient mental acuity?"

"Objection!" the defense trumpeted. "That language is outrageously prejudicial!"

"Yes, I agree," retorted Theo. "Did I not specify prejudice?"

"Sustained. Counsel, withdraw the question," the Warlock rumbled crossly.

"Very well, question withdrawn. New question: Did you not specifically say, Mr Weasley," Theo pressed, "that the plaintiff was too clever a woman to let an incapacitated man like her father rule not only her money, but her life as well?"

"OBJECTION!" shouted the defense. "Your Honor, surely this is an insult to the Wizengamot itself—"

"Overruled," said the judge. "But rephrase the question, Counsel."

"Fine, fine, if the court insists. Mr Weasley, it is your opinion that the plaintiff should gain control of the defendant's estate. Correct?" Theo prompted.

"Yes, that is my opinion," Percy said, looking troubled. "But I should specify the remark took place after the meeting had concluded, and was therefore not made in any professional capacity—"

"Hm, yes yes, and just tell me one more thing, Mr Weasley," Theo said. "Isn't it true you want to bang the plaintiff?"

Immediately, all sound in the courtroom dropped to a clatter, and Percy's face went pale.

"I… wouldn't the defense like to object?" he asked, turning helplessly to Pansy's father's attorney.

"No," said the defense, shrugging. "This is fine."

"Well, then… Objection!" Percy attempted. Beside him, the Warlock sighed.

"You can't object," Pansy countered, leaping to her feet. "Answer the question, Weasley!"

"Yes, answer the question," Theo agreed. "J'accuse!"

"I… Your Honor," Percy said, turning desperately to the presiding Warlock. "This  _clearly_ has no pertinence to the case—"

"Please answer the question," the Warlock grumbled, "so that I can go home."

"I—" Percy glanced around the courtroom, visibly sweating. "If… if the question is do I consider myself  _attracted to_  the plaintiff—"

"Nope, wasn't the question," Theo said. "The question was do you want to bang her, yes or no?"

"I…" Percy swallowed, gaze darting around the chamber before landing, desperately, on Pansy. "Is this why you called me to the stand?"

Pansy smiled thinly.

"Revenge," she murmured to him, and then turned to Theo. "Ask him about my haircut, too."

"Mr Weasley, do you like the plaintiff's haircut?" Theo asked.

"Of course." Percy leaned forward, bracing his head on his hands in near, if not total, unwilling surrender. "Yes, of course. She looks beautiful."

"How beautiful?" Pansy mused.

"How beautiful?" Theo dutifully asked.

"Very beautiful. Powerfully so, sophisticated. Like a woman who knows her own mind." Percy was rubbing his temples in agony, as was Draco. "The plaintiff is unlike any woman I've ever known, and the haircut suits her."

"These shoes?" Pansy asked thoughtfully. "They're new."

"The shoes!" Theo shouted.

"I like the shoes. I…" Percy let out a muffled sound of torment. "What was the question?"

"So true, what  _was_  the question?" the defense asked, bewildered.

"Counsel, I beg you, conclude your questioning immediately," demanded the Warlock.

"Fine. Then I will ask you, Mr Weasley, one more time," Theo obliged, stepping close to the stand. "Do. You. Want. To  _bang_ ," he delivered emphatically, "the plaintiff, Pansy Parkinson?"

For a moment, the Wizengamot chamber was absolutely silent. Pansy leaned forward, and in bizarre tribute to Theo's efficient but egregiously inappropriate lawyering, the rest of the room did, too.

"Yes." It was so small Draco thought he half-imagined it. "Yes, I want… I want to bang her. I want—" Percy's head shot up, abruptly meeting Pansy's triumphant gaze. "I want to have acrobatic, irresponsible, unforgettable and possibly immoral sex with you, Pansy Parkinson," he swore, holding up the right hand that had given the oath, "and the moment we're done, I want to do it again."

"Sorry, are you saying you want to have sex with the plaintiff more than once?" Theo fervently echoed. "Just for clarity purposes," he added, firing a congratulatory finger-gun at the court reporter.

"Yes, I… fuck, I want to bloody marry the plaintiff," Percy blurted, too far gone for lucidity now, and Pansy's dark eyes went wide. "That's mad, I know it is, but that's… that's where I am right now. I have to be honest, don't I? So yes," he exhaled raggedly, "I made that churlish, immature remark about the plaintiff taking control of her life because I knew I'd never be eligible in her father's eyes, but I know I am in hers. I know it, illogically, and yet somehow with my entire being, I know it."

"You idiot," Pansy breathed, looking either enraged or enraptured. "You swear you're not seeing anyone else?"

"Mr Weasley, are you fucking anyone else?" Theo demanded.

"Objection," said the Warlock, and then grimaced, glancing around the courtroom. "Someone please object!"

"No, I'm not, I swear. No one," Percy said, half-gasping it. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about the plaintiff since she came into my office that day."

"Have you ever pleasured yourself to the thought of fucking the plaintiff?" Theo prompted helpfully.

"COUNSEL," the Warlock barked. "Are you  _trying_  to get arrested?"

"Yes. Isn't it obvious?" Theo said.

"Yes," said Percy. "Yesterday."

"Gross," muttered Draco, mostly to himself. No one else was listening.

"Holy shit," Pansy said, apparently seduced enough to step out from behind the plaintiff's table. "Weasley, you fucking idiot," she whisper-shouted, levitating herself up a few feet off the ground to take hold of Percy's face, dragging his mouth down to hers.

"Order!" shouted the Warlock. "Order in the chambers! Counsel, please desist—"

Abruptly, Draco thought about Hermione. Specifically, that Hermione would find this funny, but also an impressive legal display. It wasn't very often a twenty-something pureblood heiress wrestled her money away from her overbearing father.

She might like that, as far as stories go.

"COUNSEL, GET DOWN FROM THERE, I AM A WARLOCK—"

The doors behind them burst open as Draco contemplated how much of the occurrence he could fit into one or two casual lines.

"Someone summoned an Auror?"

"Auror Potter, thank god you're here, he's right here—"

 _Well, not that you asked, but Theo's just kissed a Warlock_ , Draco drafted carefully in his head.  _Seeing how Potter's clearly busy the rest of the night, I'll tell you about the rest over dinner._

Yes, that would do it. She was very responsive to mystery.

He scribbled it down on some parchment, politely excusing himself from the chambers, and headed into the foyer to send an owl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the cherry emoji user, whose comparison to Jane Austen went straight to my head; amr56 for the best possible analysis of Harry's state of mind; and adeluxe, for recognizing these characters are little terrors. (For some who may be concerned: I, too, recognize it. Comedy! Or something.) Chapter title comes from one of my most frequently used expressions, via Paul Rudd in Forgetting Sarah Marshall: "When life gives you lemons, just say 'fuck the lemons' and bail."
> 
> In other news, it's aurorarsinistra's birthday week! FYI, I will be posting a celebratory one shot for her (a different literary fandom, AO3 only) on Friday. You can also now find the playlist for this story on Spotify!


	6. I Could Be the Antichrist

**Chapter 6: I Could Be the Antichrist**

_Two weeks later  
4 July 2002_

"Oh good, you're here," Hermione announced, nudging open the door to the Auror offices and spotting Harry at his desk, where, per usual, he sat beside a sunglassed and characteristically self-satisfied Theo Nott.

"Yes," Harry sighed in agreement, reaching out for the proffered cup of coffee, "here I am. This is, after all, where I live now, so I do hope you're taking care of my house elf and forwarding my mail—"

"Not you. You," Hermione said, turning to Draco, who, to her surprise, was not filling out the usual paperwork, but was instead looking at her as if she had recently grown three heads. "I have to ask you a question about seduction. What's going on?" she asked tangentially, pausing as she observed that Theo was not in his customary bindings. "Nott looks relatively loose."

"Thank you, I am," Theo replied, and Harry rolled his eyes.

"As it turns out, I can't actually charge Nott with a crime today," he supplied, looking relatively at peace with his disappointment. "I just held him overnight for him to sober up. More importantly, though, why aren't you asking me for help with seduction?"

Briefly, Hermione exchanged a glance with Draco and Theo, who collectively paused for a length of twenty seconds, give or take, in order to fully and exultantly laugh.

"Oh, thank you, Harry, I needed that," Hermione said, wiping moisture from the sides of her eyes. "No, you're very talented I'm sure, but… no," she told him fondly. "You are merely an expert in  _being_  pursued, which is unfortunately not an applicable skill. That I know of," she permitted offhandedly, in the event she was missing any pertinent details, though she doubted it. She was immensely perceptive, almost to a fault. See also: How Could All of the Adults Involved Fail to Observe Evidence of an Obvious Basilisk Infestation Unless They Were Being Deliberately Obtuse, 1992.

"Not true," Draco said, making a face. "How'd he get Chang, then?"

Harry, considering it, concluded with the very succinct and not inapplicable, "Cried on me."

"Well, I'm sure it had nothing to do with any underlying turmoil as a result of you being her next best option," Theo said kindly, as Harry slid him a sidelong glare.

"You really have a type," Draco informed Harry. "Is it always sporty girls?"

"I think it makes sense," Hermione said. "Ginny and Cho both possessed a multitude of admirable leadership skills."

"Yes, and competence with balls," said Theo.

"Who are you trying to seduce?" Harry asked Hermione, speaking what seemed slightly too-loudly over Theo's tacit observation of his fingernails. "You seem to have done well for yourself without Malfoy's help, haven't you?"

"Well, I wouldn't call it seduction when it came to Viktor," she said. "Or, for that matter, to Ron—"

"I would not use that word either," Draco muttered, retching.

"—and anyway, I have to assume there's a different courting style for men," she finished. "They are, after all, quite easy to read when it comes to matters of a physical nature, but I have to imagine a woman requires a… subtler touch, perhaps?"

"Hang on," Harry said with a frown, as Draco groaned, "Granger, I  _told_  you—"

"Of your three available candidates, I'm not sure you've chosen correctly," Theo remarked, which was the commentary Hermione opted to address first, seeing how he was the only one not focused on her reference to Padma and therefore the only useful person in that particular moment. "Would not an expert in seduction be, in fact, successful in the business of seducing?"

"Oh, I'm not asking Malfoy specifically," Hermione assured him, as Draco gave Theo a look of sour opposition. "I mean, I  _am_ , but only as part of baseline exploratory research. I've also asked Bill Weasley," she added as an afterthought.

"I actually would very much like to hear Bill's answer," Harry said, "but I think the important thing here is that someone, me if necessary, tells you to stop what you're doing immediately. And then secondarily the Bill thing," he repeated, while Draco gave a firm but subsequently disgusted nod.

"Much as I hate to agree with Potter, I cannot stress enough that your pursuit of Patil needs to desist at once," Draco said, adding a shudder for emphasis. "And then of course, if time allows, we may move forward with the discussion about how, exactly, one manages to win over someone both French and part-Veela."

"Oh, Bill just said something useless about admiration and mutual respect," Hermione said, struggling to recall. "I don't know, I wrote it down somewhere—"

"I thought you were just working on an article with Padma," Harry said, and Hermione sighed.

"Yes," she conceded, "but the trouble is I'm having such a marvelous time with her."

And she was. Padma was excellent company. Hermione had never had a friend like Padma, who was interesting and whose conversation was provocative and who seemed to only become prettier the more they spoke. More than once they'd stayed in one another's offices after hours to have a glass of wine and chat about nothing; about politics, or about Ron, or about how annoying it was that women were expected to be hairless and wear bras and not be too fat or too thin while also knowing enough about sex to be good in bed despite also having the exaggerated lashes of doe-eyed virgin, whereas alternatively, men simply waltzed around in their societal conditioning believing (to the detriment of thirsting women everywhere) that having some identifiable sense of humor was an acceptable substitute for perfect abs.

The issue was that given her frequent proximity with Padma, Hermione was beginning to suffer an uptick in related cravings. Not to make Padma seem like an ice cream cone or otherwise consumable dish, but the feeling was hardly dissimilar. Hermione's appetite (again, terrible choice of words) owing to her intellectual curiosity and fluid imagination had always been suitably inspired, and as it had been some time since she'd last been involved with someone sexually, her subconscious was beginning to taunt her with the prospect. Dreams notwithstanding, she was both biologically and emotionally wanting.

Hence, seduction had been quite literally on the mind.

"Well, that's how you know you're doing it wrong," Theo shrewdly observed. "If she isn't in fear for her life by now then Granger, I'm sorry to tell you, you're just not good at romance."

"I'm going to go out on a limb and guess Ron doesn't know you're trying to wrangle his girlfriend away from him?" Harry tentatively asked, and Hermione sighed.

"This really isn't about Ron," she informed him. "And anyway, you're not helping. Do you have any advice or not?" she asked Draco, directing the question to him once again. "Unless you are, as I suspect, not actually a sex god and are instead mostly the sort of man who likes to be snuggled as a form of manufactured intimacy," she observed aloud, in something of a secondary consideration.

"I—" Draco gaped at her. "What did you just say?"

Theo, for whatever reason, looked positively delighted, and Hermione sighed again.

"There's nothing wrong with that if you are," she informed him, irritated that all three seemed insistent on handling perfectly normal conversations about sex with a thin, obstructionist film of propriety. "Touch is a very common love language, and there's no shame in—"

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but there isn't actually some universal skill for effectively seducing all women," Draco muttered, glaring at her. "You actually have to tailor your efforts to the individual woman in question, believe it or not."

"Well," Hermione said, annoyed that he was taking such a roundabout path to answer a simple question, "you obviously know enough about her to help me, don't you? She's very clever, highly sophisticated, well-traveled and well-read, interested in culture and books… And  _she_  actually reads her weekly periodicals," Hermione pointed out to Harry, "unlike some people who receive them and let them irresponsibly pile up beside the stairs."

"First of all," Draco said with a scoff, "surely you are not comparing Potter's quidditch pornography to whatever it is Padma Patil happens to enjoy—"

"The articles are very solid," Harry said, and then to Theo's look of doubt, "What? They are."

"—and  _secondly_ ," Draco pressed on, exasperated, "surely you don't need any help seducing someone who is essentially yourself, do you?"

There was a faint possibility he was still mocking her in some way, but rather than focusing on whatever Draco Malfoy's intent may have been as her sort-of friend but mostly just another person with corresponding vacancies in his work schedule, Hermione observed the pearl of wisdom in the statement and plucked it from its ill-intended shell.

"Oh, now that is excellent advice," Hermione realized, approving. "I am obviously the right person to seduce her, as I would know precisely what she wants, wouldn't I?"

"That isn't  _at all_  what I meant," Draco insisted, suddenly alarmed. "Hang on, before you go running off to—"

"Well, I'll have to consider this in depth and probably take copious notes," Hermione murmured to herself, frowning. "After all, if I were Padma, I would want me to have considered everything in extreme and agonizing detail."

"—your usual place of Granger madn- okay, never mind, I see we have already arrived," Draco concluded, pulsing a thumb against his temple. "Apparently I am powerless to stop anything that happens, ever."

"Why are you here, by the way, if you didn't do anything illegal?" Hermione asked Theo, whose attention had been bouncing between Draco's expression and her own with rapidly manifesting exuberance. "I thought the purpose of this exercise was to get yourself arrested as wildly as possible."

"Fallacious," Theo objected. "My goal is to ruin Potter's life. My execution  _in pursuit of_ said goal is to get myself arrested as wildly as possible."

"Ah, my apologies," Hermione said. "I was being careless with my terminology."

"Forgiven," Theo said, adding, "To err is human."

Hermione scoffed. "Are you implying you're divine?"

"Only if you inferred it." Recklessly, the gauntlet was thrown.

"To answer your question," Harry cut in before the two of them waged a full-scale war of idioms, "Nott was arrested for illegal creature dealings, but the dragon egg in question was rather not."

"Rather not what?" Hermione asked.

"Not a dragon egg," Harry clarified.

"What was it?"

"I'd prefer not to say," Harry replied, nudging what appeared at first glance to be a bright pink, graphically detailed model of a human phallus into his desk drawer before turning to a waiting Draco. "No bond payment today."

"Surely there's something," Theo cut in, appearing sincere in his frustration. "Even if it wasn't actually a dragon egg, I still believed it to be one, didn't I? That surely establishes intent."

"I find it unlikely that even you were so misled," Harry told him flatly.

"Well, that's for a Warlock to decide," Theo sniffed. "I assure you, my fitness as a person of reasonable civility is easily and frequently questioned."

"Can confirm," Draco said, "anecdotally."

"I believe it," Harry retorted, "but the case is dropped, end of story. I'm not asking Dawlish to press charges, and I'm certainly not filing a report."

For the first time, Theo seemed genuinely disturbed. "Why not?"

"Yes, why not?" Hermione asked, a bit bewildered herself. "He makes an excellent point, Harry, that he clearly had intent to distribute."

"Yes!" Theo said, relieved. "You see? Granger knows I'm a criminal!"

"I'm happy to state it on record," Hermione added, as Theo gave her a beatific look of gratitude. "Would you like me to leave some sort of report? I could testify as either a character witness or an expert on the subject, whichever you prefer."

"For the record, I also understand magical law," Draco grumbled to what appeared to be himself, but Harry held up a hand, waving all three of them to silence.

"I think we can all agree that Nott's true crime is one of idiocy," he said, "and unfortunately, there is no codified law on the subject."

"Well, I suspect we could find an uncodified one," Hermione assured him. "As I'm sure you realize, Harry, the majority of British common law is unwritten and largely based on precedent."

"Odds are extremely high that at least one person has been executed for incompetence," Theo contributed, as Hermione nodded her agreement and Harry gave a loud sigh, which was his and many people's way of informing her it was best if they all moved on with their lives and proceeded to their respective areas of employment.

"See you tonight?" Harry asked her, and she glanced pointedly at Theo, who contemplated it.

"No promises," he determined after a moment, "but obviously my window for criminality is limited, and to all our disappointment Potter is more powerless than I thought. I shall have to spend some quality time with my books."

"Marvelous," Hermione said, and glanced at Draco. "Lunch?"

He shrugged. "Busy today. Tomorrow?"

"Oh." A bit disappointing; she'd grown accustomed to their random lunches and coffee breaks, which were a nice relief from the drudgery of her day. "Probably," she said, "though I'll have to let you know. I'm supposed to meet Lily Moon in Edinburgh sometime this week." Another leg of her tour, another interview.

"Well, whenever," Draco said evasively, and Hermione sighed. He was being tiresome, probably intentionally. She glanced at his wrist, which was… ah, 29%. Well, fine. She had wondered at first if the acceleration of their compatibility had been following some sort of predictable Fibonacci sequence, but evidently not. Just more of the universe's entropic tendencies towards randomness. As far as Hermione could tell, the human experience was mostly madness and stupidity, and apparently that both included and defined her friendship with Draco Malfoy.

She bid Harry farewell and went about her day. Padma had lent her a very good book which she used to occupy her lunch hour, and then she did a bit more research for their article, sending a few more notes. Padma replied with the usual— _BRILLIANT, I love this insight, shall we meet tomorrow to discuss interviews?_ —and for a moment, Hermione paused, considering whether she might position herself for something more fruitful than mere political discussion (though that, too, was stimulating in its own way).

In her pause, of course, another note shot out from the Floo, this time in the shape of a neatly-folded rose.  _Sorry I canceled lunch. Try to rein in the madness today or I'll never forgive myself._

She put Padma's note aside, replying,  _I'm perfectly capable of having lunch without you, Malfoy. Astoundingly, both my digestion and my sanity remain largely unaided by your presence and therefore unhindered by your absence._

His response, a moment or so later:  _Well, since it apparently bears repeating, you don't have to seduce Patil._

Hers:  _And why not?_

His:  _Do you really want to have to plot someone's seduction just to have a relationship? Surely you shouldn't have to persuade someone to date you._

Hers:  _So things should just fall blindly into place, then? Is that your general hypothesis?_

His:  _I didn't say that. I just don't think you should have to try so hard._

Hers:  _So because you're afraid to try, I should be too?_

His:  _I'm feeling very attacked, Granger._

Hers:  _It's not my job to chaperone your feelings, Malfoy._

His:  _I'm just saying, if things are meant to be they'll, you know. Be._

Hers, with an implied scoff:  _Only cowards and preternaturally lucky people say that._

His:  _Well, I am obviously very lucky, as evidenced by the fact that my friends are stable, well-adjusted human adults and I'm in a wonderful, communicative relationship with a woman both French and part-Veela._

Hers:  _I'm not saying you're a coward, but I do wonder how you expect things to simply 'be' without some effort._

After she sent it, it occurred to her that perhaps she should take a little of her own advice. She pulled out a slip of parchment and wrote to Padma:  _Why don't you come over to my house tomorrow night? We can go over our source list and also have dinner, if you want._

Padma's response came before Draco's:  _Love that idea! Will bring wine. xx_

Hermione packed up her things and went home without hearing from Draco at all, finding Harry restlessly wandering the kitchen. "Are you hungry?" he asked, rounding on her with a very Harry-esque buzz of underlying mania she had not seen in several years. Certainly not any time recently, and not, in fact, since they had both been hunting horcruxes. "I don't feel like cooking," he grumbled.

"You do know Kreacher is right there holding a soufflé," Hermione observed, giving the elf a sympathetic glance that he returned with a blistering scowl, disapparating.

"I just… I need to get out of the house." Harry stalked around the kitchen a bit more, the floor momentarily lava, and then he pivoted to face her. "I think Nott's up to something," he declared.

Well, Hermione thought. Now this was certainly familiar.

"Do you?" she replied neutrally. She was willing to play along to some degree, as paranoia did seem to bring Harry some perverse form of joy. He hadn't been this energized since Voldemort had been consumed with thoughts of his murder, which she supposed was a welcome change from the disheartened Harry Potter of late. "Well, I suppose we could find out, couldn't we?"

"I hear there's an illegal fighting ring somewhere in Knockturn," Harry said, muttering it to himself as he paced. "Plus there's a brothel that hosts illegal divination nights, though that seems too small." He rounded on her with a start, frowning. "You don't think he'd sleep with a prostitute just to get arrested, would he?"

"He could be gambling," Hermione suggested as an alternative. "That's illegal, isn't it?"

Harry snapped his fingers, eyes widening. "Yes. Of course, gambling, that could be." His hand shot out for his cloak, which Kreacher helpfully appeared with. "Anything else?"

"Drugs?" Hermione asked optimistically.

"Perfect, we'll start there," Harry said, and gave her a softened look of gratitude. "You weren't busy tonight, were you?"

"Me? No," Hermione assured him. "And besides, this is very important. Nott's a menace to society and you're doing very good work."

"Thank you, I agree," Harry said, as the two of them headed through the Floo.

Hours later, having found nothing, Hermione came home to a response from Draco.

_For the record, if it were me doing the seducing, I'd light candles. Everyone looks better in firelight. And I'd make something light for dinner. It's hot, something chilled… maybe melon with prosciutto? Possibly a couscous salad?_

_Skip dessert_ , he added.  _You'll be dessert._

Hermione smiled faintly.

 _Thanks_ , she wrote back.

 _No problem_ , he said, and though she wondered why he was still awake so late, she decided it would be better to sleep, turning out the light and resolving to simply ask him tomorrow.

* * *

The following night, Draco learned a wonderful thing about his relationship with Pansy. Specifically, that while they had once had vigorous, enthusiastic, mutually gratifying and routinely satisfying casual sex along with the occasional episode of amicable conversation, they were now left with  _exclusively_  conversation, which possessed no satisfaction or vigor at all. And by wonderful, Draco of course meant horrific, and by 'a thing' he meant he wished there had been  _nothing_ , and yet here he was, Pansy's former lover, unwillingly engaging with her and her new boyfriend on an invitation that neither the divine nor any proper social norms had been brave enough to forcefully condemn.

"I don't understand," he told her, observing with dismay how she had all but perched herself on Percy Weasley's lap, lacing her fingers through his. Had she always been so… touchy? Was that why he'd liked her? Draco thought of Hermione's commentary on his alleged 'love language' and shuddered, dismayed with himself.

"Is the revenge aspect of your plan that Weasley now has to date you," he posed, gruff with mild internal turmoil, "or have I missed a crucial factor in your vengeance plot?"

"The vengeance is over, Draco, thank you for noticing. And anyway," Pansy sniffed, briskly detangling herself from the ginger bureaucrat who was apparently preferable to Draco—or, at least, to his mere 33% compatible penis, which offered neither emotional stability nor a future—"I didn't intend to keep you long. I just wanted to extend an invitation to the wedding."

Draco, who was beginning to think he should stop taking sips of anything while other people were speaking, immediately choked on his swallow of wine.

"The what?" he asked, after drowning for a moment in a noseful of pinot noir.

"I admit, it is quite soon," Percy permitted, though his tone was more conciliatory than regretful. Sort of the tone someone might take to reschedule a visit to the doctor rather than the tone he should have taken, which was something akin to, 'help, I'm being mauled by a rabid bear and nobody seems to have taken notice.' "Naturally I suggested we take things a bit slower, but in the end—"

"In the end, why wait?" Pansy interrupted, which at least meant she would be interrupting other men who were not Draco for the foreseeable future. "After all, we've already been inseparable for nearly two weeks—"

"Well, that settles it. That's well over the length of the average stomach flu, well done," Draco said.

"—and what purpose would there be denying we're meant for each other? We have proof, after all," Pansy reminded him, tapping Percy's wrist for emphasis. "We're perfectly compatible, we're fantastic in bed, and now that I don't require my father's permission, I can do precisely as I please."

"Is this really…" Draco broke off, his stomach turning a bit as Pansy brought Percy's mouth to her own, biting lightly at his bottom lip and suggesting the moment Draco left, she would be naked on this very table. Then, remembering that in fact there was no proof she hadn't  _already_  been naked on this very table, Draco gingerly lifted his elbows from the wooden surface, adding, "Are you sure this isn't a bit rash?"

Pansy gave an irritated sigh, peeling herself away from Percy long enough to admonish Draco with a glance. "Do you have any  _actual_  reasons you'd like to oppose this, Draco," she demanded, "or are you simply planning to aristocratically sulk?"

"I—" He paused to check himself; then, determining there was no way for him to sulk  _un_ -aristocratically, he continued, "I just want to make sure you know what you're doing, Pans. It's not as if your compatibility is any real guarantee the relationship will last."

"Well, if I'm wrong, we'll know soon enough and then we'll just divorce. Won't we?" she mused, turning to Percy. "You wouldn't mind that, would you?"

"What, divorce? Procedurally I have no opposition," Percy replied, which Draco did not doubt. He thought perhaps Percy Weasley was the sort of person who might get off on the logistics of drafting a prenuptial agreement alone, which explained many things. Draco dreaded to think how both must have equally misused the amorous minutiae of Pansy's court proceedings for their own carnal purposes, and then immediately regretted having trapped himself into considering it. "It also has the added benefit of being able to court you all over again," Percy added to Pansy, which was, in Draco's mind, an outrageous thing to say, though no more outrageous than anything that had already been said.

" _Court_  me," Pansy echoed, lips twisting up in her usual silky amusement. "Is that what you're doing?"

"Not at the moment," Percy said, his hand conspicuously out of sight from Draco's vantage point, "but I certainly have plans."

As it had become obvious his role in the dinner was little more than witness to obscenely lurid foreplay, Draco politely cleared his throat, rising to his feet. "When is this wedding?" he asked, and Pansy sighed, removing her lips from Percy's neck and turning to him with impatience.

"Next month," she said, "probably. I'd like to have a summer wedding, depending how quickly I can pull together an appropriately tasteful affair."

Next month.

Next  _month_.

"Have you two discussed…  _anything_?" Draco demanded, glancing exasperatedly between them. "Children? Religion? Politics? Your respective in-laws?"

"Oh, we loathe each other's politics," Pansy said fondly. "We've fought about them ad nauseam, as you would not believe the flaming liberalism on this ungainly champion of the plebeian working class."

"And you're fine with this?" Draco asked Percy. "She's essentially no different from Marie Antoinette."

"A fine woman with a dark and haunted past," Percy replied, nipping at Pansy's ear, "and anyway, in the event of the inevitable revolution, I have no doubt she'd consider it the height of discourtesy for me to defend her, therefore I shall simply cut my losses and run."

"We haven't discussed children," Pansy said, turning to look at him. "What do you think?"

"Whatever you think," he said.

"Magnificent," Pansy said, and then frowned, turning to Draco. "What were the other things?"

He hated to contribute, but sighed, "Your families?"

"Oh, my mother loathes her," Percy said cheerfully, "which is perfect, as I'm not entirely convinced my mother likes me."

"And it's perfect for me as well," Pansy agreed, "as I make a superb antagonist."

"I—" Draco sighed, throwing his hands up in what was obviously defeat on behalf of all logic. "Fine. I get it, you're perfect for each other. Get married, sure, whatever," he grumbled, "as what is human life if not a constant stream of uninvited chaos?"

"Your approval is appreciated, but unnecessary," Pansy said, disregarding his tone altogether and rising to her feet to escort him to the Floo.

It was a sad day indeed when Draco would turn to Theo to ease his sense that he was the only one experiencing a circus of fuckery while everyone else seemed to be politely observing a socially permissible round of golf, but there they were. "It's like everyone else is just quietly saying nothing," Draco ranted, "and it's just me, alone, noticing everyone else's madness and being thoroughly ignored."

"Very Cassandra of you," commented Theo, who had suited up (or suited down) for what appeared to be some sort of underground boxing match. Having heard of Harry Potter's visit to this particular area the night before, Theo had evidently taken it upon himself to arrive there and participate, launching right into a fight. "It's like you're observing the apocalypse while everyone smiles," Theo said, panting a bit. "A very 'playing Wagner while the Titanic sinks' situation."

"Was it Wagner?" Draco asked, as Theo ducked a punch to the side of his cheek. "Vivaldi would have been more sensible."

Theo hit his opponent with a hard punch to the gut, then darted back. "Really, Vivaldi? I just assumed something heavy and German."

"Well, the funereal impulse is sound," Draco permitted, "but that would defeat the purpose of calming the passengers, don't you think?"

"Ah, true," Theo agreed, beating his opponent to one punch and then swatting another away. "Just one second, would you?"

He danced out of earshot, throwing a few more punches (or something) while Draco continued to wonder what had been so bothersome about his conversation with Pansy. Hadn't he told Hermione himself that when things were meant to be they simply fell together? Why, then, would he feel the need to tell someone doing precisely as he suggested that they were being insane?

And  _what_  in Salazar's name was a love language?

The recurrent memory of Hermione Granger's siege on his confidence lodged another unpleasant thought in Draco's throat, which was that perhaps she was with Padma Patil at that very moment. Which was not to say he had a problem with it in any sort of social or cultural sense. Good lord, was he some sort of heteronormative fiend who opposed it on the basis of its  _morality…_? He hoped not. Formerly blood prejudiced was one thing, but homophobic he was firmly not. How thoroughly undignified.

"Well, anyway," Theo said, returning to the conversation sporting what would certainly be tomorrow's black eye, "what were we saying?"

"Just that Granger's wrong, that's all," Draco said, and Theo frowned.

"Pardon my head injury," he said, swatting away his very tired opponent's attempt at a punch, "but as I recall, we were discussing Parkinson, weren't we?"

"Hm? Well, yes, but—" A pause. "You don't think I crave manufactured intimacy, do you?"

"Me? No," Theo said, ducking under a wild swing intended for his jaw. "I think you'd prefer real intimacy," he remarked through a sweaty huff, "but you'll take what you can get."

How tragically pathetic, Draco thought. "Do you think this comes down to whether I was held enough as a child?" he lamented. "That feels rather… mundane."

"Yes," Theo confirmed, "but really, you're entirely blameless. This is where our compatible half shines," he added, cracking his opponent in the chin, "seeing as our upbringings were hardly the zenith of parental affection."

"Well, my mother loved me, didn't she? And my father, in his way."

"Oh, surely," Theo agreed. "But in much the same way someone looks at a bird and says 'it would be best if that flying thing were suitably caged and observed from afar for my enjoyment,' so Granger's intimacy point stands, whether or not you continue to avoid her."

Draco opened his mouth to argue that Theo was obviously wrong, or at least hopefully wrong, and also he wasn't avoiding her he just had other things to do aside from casual weekday lunches that apparently meant nothing to her anyway, but instead he broke off, surprised to discover a somewhat impatient owl at his side.

"What's this?" he asked, but noticed the handwriting and accepted as Theo darted weedily away from his opponent, leaving the much larger man to fall over his own feet. "Any response requested?"

The owl shrugged, and Draco opened the note.

 _Malfoy_ , the note said in an unsteady version of Hermione's handwriting,  _if you by chance can come to Scotland I will buy you clotted cream and ponies? Regards, Herbert J. Granger_

Well, Draco thought, exchanging a skeptical glance with the owl.

Now that was quite a language indeed.

* * *

The night had started innocently enough, with a meticulously plotted setting for deviance. Taking Draco's suggestion, Hermione had prepared a cheese plate along with a salad of melon, snap peas, and salted ricotta, determining that to be sufficiently gourmet while also unlikely to upset anyone's stomach pre-coitus. Not that she anticipated  _sex_ , per se. Intercourse was merely an option, not the goal. After all, Padma was still presently in a relationship with Ron, and Hermione did have morals to pair with her recent upswing in voracity. However, in the event things did get amorous and/or physical, she felt it always better to be prepared.

Padma had come straight from work, still wearing the pencil skirt and blouse she'd been wearing when they ran into each other in the office. Hermione, who had changed when she came home, couldn't decide if this was a good thing, meaning Padma had been so eager to join her for dinner she hadn't stopped home to change, or perhaps a bad one, meaning she didn't care if she smelled like afternoon coffee and newspaper ink. Hermione eventually decided to disregard this observation altogether, settling into her usual enjoyment of Padma's company.

"God, it's been a long day. Let me pour you a glass," Padma said upon arrival, holding up the bottle she'd brought with her. Hermione quietly intuited that the suggestion of wine first meant the evening might lean more social than work related. "What?" Padma asked, half-laughing at Hermione's thoughtful silence. "We work hard, Hermione. We sacrifice carbs! We deserve this."

Ultimately, Hermione counted it as a point in the seduction column. "True," she conceded, accepting the glass Padma handed her. Experimentally, she brushed up against Padma when she joined her at the counter. Padma quickly whirled away, looking for a glass, and Hermione frowned. Had she noticed and rejected Hermione's advances? Or had she not noticed, instead finding Hermione's proximity perfectly normal and therefore, perhaps, welcome?

"These candles are so gorgeous," Padma said, gesturing to the ones Hermione had selected for the evening. "What is that smell, too? Jasmine?"

"Jasmine and gardenia," Hermione confirmed.

"Oh, so summery, I love it. Such a nice touch," Padma remarked, and carried the bottle out to the dining room, leaving Hermione to frown and follow.

Dinner conversation was similarly difficult to read. They bounced back and forth between their article, politics in general, and a bit of gossip about their co-workers. Hermione brought up Ron, testing the waters, and Padma laughed conspiratorially, as usual.

"Oh, there are definitely times I'm deeply conscious of how  _boy_  he is," she remarked, rolling her eyes. "He's had such an overbearing mother, plus he has a taste for domineering women—Oh, don't be insulted," she added quickly, as Hermione registered the reference to herself. "It's absolutely not a slight, I'm the same way. My point is he's so used to being bossed around by some woman or another that he's absolutely hopeless to do anything for himself."

"I suppose I do tend to be a bit bossy," Hermione lamented, and Padma scoffed.

"That's just what people say when a woman knows what she wants. Ignore it," she told Hermione. "Never let anyone tell you you're too much."

Silently, Hermione allotted herself another point in the seduction column. Padma reached out for a bit of manchego, adding thoughtfully, "In some ways it speaks to Ron's character, you know? The women he admires are strong, ambitious, determined. He doesn't go for the weak-willed wallflowers, so I suppose that's something. I think he tends to assume the smartest person in any room is a woman, which is… endearing," she remarked, nibbling pensively on her bite of cheese. "Even if it does mean I spend most of my time telling him his shirt is wrinkled."

Ah yes, the wrinkled shirts. A Ronald Weasley hallmark.

"I can't say I miss the mothering," Hermione said, and Padma sighed, setting her glass down.

"Admittedly that's not very sexy," she said, grimacing. "I do sometimes wish he'd take control a bit."

Interesting. Hermione sat up slightly. "Oh?"

"Well, I'm in charge at work, aren't I? Sort of, minus Dauntless, but then I come home and I'm expected to be in charge in my relationship as well. It can be sort of exhausting," Padma admitted, her mouth quirking slightly along with her confession. "We did quarrel yesterday, a bit."

Hermione leaned across the table. "Did you?"

"Well, he has this strange expectation that I'll take care of things, doesn't he? That I should make decisions for both of us or somehow predict his moods—"

"You mentioned you don't date women," Hermione said, abruptly recalling that Padma had remarked on it at the comedy show. "Why not?"

"Hm? Oh, I don't know," Padma sighed into her wine glass. "I suppose I'm drawn to women physically, but I generally end up becoming emotionally involved with men. It can be," she began, and paused. "A bit challenging, I think, for me to feel open with women?"

"Really?" Hermione asked, surprised. "More so than men?"

"Well, men are just so emotionally stupid," Padma said dismissively. "There's nothing terribly complex there, assuming they're even competent enough with their feelings to voice them, but with a woman it always feels a bit like a game I don't know how to play."

"I used to feel that way about your sister," Hermione said, thinking specifically of The Cormac McLaggen Farce of 1995 (a subset of the Extended Won-Won Debacle, 1995-1996, which was in turn part of The Ron Weasley Sequence of Thoughtless Betrayals, 1991-2001), and Padma reluctantly nodded her agreement.

"Yes, Parvati is… layered," Padma admitted. "I'm sure if I thought to analyze myself closely that might be part of it, but…" She drummed her fingers on the table, glancing up with a tepid smile. "I don't want to bore you with all this," she said, resuming patronage of her glass. "How's the wine?"

"You're not boring me," Hermione assured her. "Actually, I find it a relief to have you around. There aren't many people that I'm this…" She paused, contemplating her word choice. "Compatible with," she determined, and Padma's glass froze on the way to her lips.

"Hermione," she said, clearing her throat. "This is a friendly dinner, correct?"

"Hm? Oh, of course," Hermione assured her, finding it necessary in the context of the conversation, even if it was mostly a lie.

"Hermione." Padma's brow furrowed slightly. "Are you—"

"Should we discuss the paper?" Hermione asked too-loudly, reaching for her notes, and Padma reached across the table, catching Hermione's hand and pausing her.

"Hermione, listen to me. If you're," Padma began, and then, after a moment to collect herself, continued, "if you're feeling something… some  _attraction_ ," she offered, "or something, then I should probably tell you—"

"Well, say it's more than attraction," Hermione suggested, her pulse speeding a bit. She hadn't intended to confess anything, but there they were, and Padma still hadn't released her. "Say I enjoy your company, and I like you, and of course we're, well. We're almost perfectly compatible," she pointed out, glancing at Padma's wrist, and Padma grimaced.

"Hermione, it's very flattering of you to consider me that way, but I'm with Ron," she said, as Hermione's resolve slightly wavered. "I'm not available."

"Well, I know that," Hermione retorted, a bit defensive, "but I just thought since we get along so well, and we're clearly  _more_  compatible—"

"Do you even know if you like me?" Padma asked, releasing her with something suspiciously like anger. "Or are you just convinced that you  _should_  like me because a number on your wrist is telling you so?"

"I… well, that's ridiculous," Hermione said, flustered. "You make it sound like… like it's astrology or tarot or something—"

"Well, what's the difference?" Padma asked, folding her arms over her chest. "My sister would trust a tea leaf to tell her what to wear in the morning, so how are you any different for believing a percentage on your wrist when it comes to who you should love?"

"This isn't some absurd pseudoscience, it's compatibility," Hermione insisted. "And we're obviously compatible, aren't we? This isn't just a matter of blindly believing something I'm being told!"

"Yes, of course we're compatible," Padma replied, bristling, "but that doesn't mean I'm just going to give up my relationship to have one with you."

"I didn't ask you to do that," Hermione snapped, and Padma stiffened a moment, then grimaced, glancing down at the grains of the table.

"I'm sorry if I've overreacted," she said. "It's just, well…" She broke off, clearing her throat. "Never mind. I should go," she determined, and Hermione blinked, startled.

"Padma, you don't have t-"

"It's fine, I'm just… I think I'm a bit tipsy already, to be honest. We can work on this another time? Maybe Monday, in the office," Padma suggested firmly, as a knot in Hermione's throat quickly tightened. "I want us to be friends," Padma added, tucking a loose wave neatly behind her ear. "I want to work with you, and I want to continue being your friend. Please don't misunderstand."

Dutifully, Hermione slid the points from the seduction column and placed them firmly elsewhere.

"Padma," she began, but was immediately interrupted, a message darting out from the Floo to hover above her glass, trembling urgently for her attention. "Just one second, Padma," Hermione sighed, recognizing the handwriting belonging to Lily Moon's manager. "Let me just—"

"No, no, we'll talk later. I'll send you an owl first thing," Padma promised, her tone brisk and businesslike, and then she was gone through the Floo, leaving Hermione to sigh into her wine glass.

A few minutes later she was apparating out for a last minute request from Lily, asking Hermione to cover the show she was playing late that evening in Edinburgh. An overcrowded pop concert wasn't Hermione's first choice of activity, particularly not when Friday nights were meant for a book and some meditative silence, but she supposed it made for a pleasant distraction from the evening's earlier… misjudgments.

She couldn't quite put a finger on her disappointment, aside from her still-bothersome physical itch. She had a feeling she'd upset Padma more thoroughly than Padma's rejection had hurt her, but she seemed to be missing some details as to why that might have been. In the end, though, she had little time to think about it; she walked into Lily's dressing room after the set to find that Lily was in a bit of a temper, speaking sharply to her manager and turning so quickly at Hermione's entry that she nearly leapt back in alarm.

"Good, you're here," Lily said flatly, withdrawing a bottle of Ogden's from her vanity and pointing to the door. "Out," she informed her manager. "And don't you dare let anyone else inside here until I say so, do you hear me?"

Hermione glanced between the departing manager and the enraged-looking pop star and cleared her throat, bemused. "Lily, if you'd like to do the interview later—"

"No. What I'd like is for you to explain to me what you think I should do, because no one else on my team seems to understand." Lily poured herself a shot, throwing it back with a wince, and held out a second glass to Hermione. "Drink?"

"Well, I'm at work," Hermione said, frowning. "It seems a bit unprofessional t-"

"Don't make me drink alone," Lily told her. "That would be unspeakably rude."

"I—" Hermione hesitated, but sighed. "Yes, fine. Just one," she said.

But she did not have just one.

As it turned out, Lily was infuriated over the news that The Gobstones' latest single had gone number one that day, displacing her own lead single. The fury, however, was not related to her own loss on the wizarding pop charts, but specifically to the subject of The Gobstones' song: i.e., Lily herself.

"Bastien wrote a song about  _me_ ," Lily growled. "And he told everyone it's about me, too! He won't stop repeating it in interviews! Have you seen today's  _Witch Weekly_?" she demanded, pouring Hermione another shot as Hermione shook her head, slightly dazed. "Well, you'll get a kick out of this. Look," Lily snapped, tossing the magazine down for Hermione's observation. "Can you believe this shit?"

_BASTIEN QUEENSBURY PROCLAIMS EVERLASTING LOVE FOR FORMER FLAME LILY MOON WITH GOBSTONES' NEW SINGLE 'COLD HEART'… WHEN WILL LILY OPEN UP THAT COLD, COLD HEART?_

"People are accusing me of being a bitch, a slut, an ice queen," Lily enumerated at a rant, raising another glass to her lips as she tossed down another few periodicals. "He turned our breakup into news, and now everyone's taking his side!"

"This is ridiculous," Hermione said, frowning as she scanned the article about Bastien's dreamy pining. That it had nothing to do with either of their music careers was only the tip of the iceberg. "This is what people think love should look like? Harassment?"

"Yes!" Lily wailed, refilling her glass. "He practically  _stalks_  me, and now he's making money off the fact that we dated? He's destroying my career," she bemoaned with a whimper, bringing her whisky to her lips, "and now my personal life, too. I can't date anyone else without looking like a monster, and I certainly can't do anything about  _him_ —"

"What happened?" Hermione asked, glancing up from the magazine with concern. No wonder Lily was so upset; the copy of  _Witch Weekly_  had dragged up every picture of her looking sullen or disinterested or simply caught staring into space and compiled them into one exhibition showcasing her as a heartless… well… trollop. "Your breakup," she asked, gingerly taking the shot Lily had poured for her. "Was it traumatic or something?"

Lily shook her head, raising one hand to her cheek. "No. Nothing like that."

Hermione had already figured as much. If Bastien had been unfaithful or cruel, that was an easy spin, and one that Lily's team might have already taken. "Just drifted apart, then?"

"Yes," Lily said, sniffling now. "It just… it was never a good fit, it never felt right. He's handsome and he's, you know,  _passionate_ , but do I see myself having a life with him? No." She poured herself another glass, letting the liquid splash onto her fingers. "He's so in love with being famous I never trusted him, not really. And I wanted to put  _my_  career first, but he wanted me to be at all his shows, and that was just exhausting. All I wanted was someone to come home to, you know? Someone to love me for me, to let me pursue my dreams without getting in the way, but of course the last thing a woman can be is  _selfish—_ "

Of course not. Briefly, Hermione shuddered, the whisky helping her remember something she'd tried very hard to forget:  _YOU ARE A WICKED GIRL. HARRY POTTER DESERVES BETTER. GO BACK WHERE YOU CAME FROM MUGGLE._

Hadn't Rita Skeeter done the same thing to her during The Triwizard Tournament Parade of Hate Mail (Including the Molly Weasley Spitefully Miniaturized Easter Egg) of 1995? Hermione watched Lily's hand tremble and then, in a moment of sympathy, she reached out to take the glass from her fingers, taking the shot herself.

"Listen," Hermione announced, wincing a little as the liquid burned down her throat. "I'm not leaving here until we figure out how to tell your side of the story, okay?"

Lily looked up, blue eyes wide with exhaustion and gratitude. "Really?"

"Really," Hermione promised, summoning her quill and getting to work.

They spent another hour in the dressing room before going to Lily's hotel, finishing their conversation there. By the time Hermione and Lily were done working out the intricacies of her next tour piece, however, they had also finished a substantial amount of the bottle. Hermione, who did not have any urgent desires to get splinched, discovered there was no direct Floo access to Grimmauld Place from Edinburgh in the off-hour of 2 a.m., leaving her in a bit of a pickle.

Someone, it seemed, would have to come get her.

"You could stay here," Lily offered brightly, albeit drunkenly. "I'll have my manager get you a room, it's no trouble—"

But Hermione, who wanted to be able to work on the article the moment she could take some sobriety potion, shook her head, suddenly poked by a very helpful recollection.

"No, I've got an archenemy for that," she realized, leaning over to scribble a letter and feeling immensely relieved that, for whatever reason, Draco Malfoy did not know how to sleep.

* * *

"Wait, wait, stop," he gasped, unsure what she was doing, but whatever it was, the sensations were happening too fast. She'd put her mouth on his cock no more than two minutes ago but wherever her hands were now, they were demonically effective. "Granger, slow down, GrangerGranger _JesusChrist_ holySHIT—"

Too late. In a burst of something exquisitely, acutely pleasurable while also ecstatically tormentous, he came; gloriously, ostentatiously, and vigorously. He came  _hard_ , half-choking on the effort, and dear god, it was humiliating and dastardly and truly, incomparably good. In fact, Draco came harder than he could remember ever having done so before, which was… not quite the plan. In fact, it was a little bit of a major problem.

Hermione, however, merely glanced up, unsurprised. "What? You seem upset," she observed, and he grimaced, or possibly glowered.

"What did you do down there?" he demanded, and she rose to her feet with a shrug, lightly dragging the tip of her thumb along the left side of her lower lip.

Jesus.

"Prostate," she said, as if that were enough of an explanation. "I just massaged your perineum for a bit, and then I put my finger in your—"

"STOP," he said firmly, and then, realizing that perhaps his panic had been a bit uncalled for, he exhaled, "I just meant… you know, you don't have to…  _do_  that. Like, do it, by all means," he rushed to clarify, "but not so…"

God, what was he saying? Be less aggressive? Be less  _good…_? Surely he hadn't recently succumbed to madness, but then again, maybe he had.

"You enjoyed it, didn't you?" she prompted him, removing the buttons of her shirt with quick, perfunctory motions before discarding it on the floor, reaching behind her to remove her bra. "You're the one who came."

"I—" He stopped, sighing, and for completely unknowable reasons, hastily looked away when she released her bra, dropping it into the pile of her clothing with two extremely talented, troublingly untroubled fingers. "The orgasm isn't the  _point_ , Granger," he insisted, pained by having to explain something so intolerably vulnerable. "Is it too much to ask that there be a little more to it than that?"

"You did say casual," she pointed out. "Didn't you?"

And at approximately that moment, Draco thought it perhaps important to back up.

If he had known he would have ended the evening (or was it early morning?) having entered into a single-use sexual contract with Hermione Granger, perhaps he might have taken a sleeping potion instead and ignored incoming communication altogether. As it was, he had unfortunately come when summoned, which was already retroactively breaking his usual rules. He  _never_  did boyfriend things for women he was sleeping with, in accordance with his code of meticulous detachment, and fetching her from Scotland definitely counted as a boyfriend thing.

But then, at the time, he also hadn't known he was going to be sleeping with her, so possibly that was a good excuse.

She had been sitting sleepily in the lobby, half-mumbling drunken nothings to herself about feminism and ice cream cones, and while he'd had every intention to inform her that being Theo's apparent guardian  _did not_  mean he was hers too, he abandoned it, figuring there was going to be no reasoning with her in her current state. Instead he took her home, abiding her loud shushing as she fumbled noisily for reserve sober-up potion, and then, for whatever reason, he'd stayed while she began accosting him with information about her evening, not that he had bothered to ask.

Or maybe he had asked. Really, post-perineum massage, everything was a bit of a blur.

"It's totally unfair what Bastien's doing to her," Hermione informed him, as if he were part of some heinous male conspiracy to undermine all female pop stars both historically and worldwide. "He's essentially saying that just because  _he_  feels they belong together,  _she_  should have feelings for him, too! Which is just so aggressively boy, by the way—"

"Is it?" Draco countered, possibly unwisely. "You did say something very similar to Patil."

"I didn-" She broke off, considering it.

At that moment, if someone were to have asked him, Draco would have said yes, he did find that admirable about her; that she was stubborn, but still capable of thought. But of course no one had asked and thus he did not confess to it, and then, after a moment of frowning and more muttering to herself, Hermione said, "Do you think that's it, then?"

"Um." He paused, consistently startled whenever she took his input seriously. "I'm not some sort of psychological herald, Granger."

"No, you certainly are not," she drily agreed.

"Not an oracle, either."

"Hardly," she scoffed.

"But," he admitted, "it does seem as if you lured her here under the pretense of friendship, which is… a bit questionable?" he posed, observing her furrowed brow. "I mean, if Bastien Queensbury had done that to Lily Moon, for example," he began, but that appeared to be enough to register with horror on her face.

"Oh  _god_." She flopped over backwards on her bed, clapping her hands over her face. "Is this what it feels like to be part of the patriarchy?" she wailed, patently dismayed with herself.

"I don't know," Draco said. "I suppose I do generally feel very conscious of my ability to vote."

"My god, if I were a man… if I were  _Dauntless,_  for example!"

"I think it was an honest mistake," Draco assured her, perching beside her on the bed. "Granted, it was a mistake I told you several times not to make, but at least you made it, you know… honestly."

"Actually, I lied more than once," Hermione said.

"Well…" She was making it very difficult to defend her choices, probably by virtue of not having made any good ones. "Fine," he sighed, giving up and flopping back to lie on the bed beside her. "You fucked up, Granger, and you owe her an apology."

"Well, balls," Hermione declared, turning to him with a groan. With traces of dehydration and concert sweat, she had a nice little sheen to her. Something of a flush alighting on her cheeks, like a shame fever. "I don't know why I'm so desperate to pursue her," she admitted, sounding a little morose. "I suppose because I want companionship."

She paused for a moment, glancing at her ceiling.

"Or because of the dream," she added as an afterthought, and Draco turned with a frown, catching the sheepish look on her face. "I had a sex dream," she explained, and before he could really let himself wade into the many complex layers of that disgracefully arousing information, she had already added, "You were in it, too."

Ah. This was where things started happening. He had the thread of it now.

"Granger, if you tell a man you had a sex dream with him in it, he's going to want sex."

"Who says I don't?"

Yes. This was definitely where it all started.

"Are you still drunk?"

"No, not drunk." She turned to look at him. "Just a bit sexually frustrated, I think."

"Frustrated," he echoed, scoffing. "So I'm, what, then? Scratching an itch? Research?"

"If you wanted," she said with a shrug. "I'm very good."

God, what a disaster she was. What a very tempting disaster, and what a pity his brain was so deprived the necessity of sleep.

"I don't do relationships," he cautioned her, thinking that enough to scare her off, and she let out a bark of laughter.

"We're 29% compatible," she reminded him. "You really think I'd ever get into a relationship with you?"

Well, point to her. "So you'd be okay with casual sex?" he asked, doubtful.

"I'm asking for it, aren't I?"

Another point to her, though some offers were simply too appealing to be true. "What's the catch?" he asked suspiciously. Not of her—more of the universe itself, though she was the only one to answer.

"No catch." She turned, propping her head up to look at him. "One night," she proposed. "Casual sex. Neither of us commits to anything."

How distressingly clinical. "Are you going to negotiate the sex as well?"

She considered it. "Kiss for five minutes," she said, "then oral sex—"

"On you?"

"No, on you," she said, startling him. "Unless you'd like to as well?"

He was a little too dazed to ask questions. "In the interest of fairness, I suppose."

"Fine," she said. "Kiss for five minutes—"

"Ten," Draco said. Mostly just to participate.

And because, fuck it all, he liked to be touched.

Wanted to be.

"Fine, ten," she conceded, ever the gracious hostess. "Then I'll go down on you, then you on me, and then penetrative sex."

Nothing had ever sounded less sexy. "Any particular position?" he asked, hoping to sound bitter and sarcastic and possibly used, but instead he simply sounded curious.

She considered it. "Missionary to start. Then I suspect you like to feel you're in charge, so you can choose the next one."

"You  _suspect_  that?" he echoed, quietly despairing over being read like a bloody textbook.

"More of a guess than a suspicion," she said. Then she sat upright, turning to him. "Shall we start?"

She tasted, at first brush, like whisky. He decided in lieu of answering he would simply sit up and kiss her, which he did, at which point he catalogued a series of very normal discoveries: She tasted like whisky. She smelled like gardenia perfume and summer. Her skin was very soft. The material of her shirt draped around her torso loosely, and it, too, was invitingly soft. Beneath it were her ribs. He slid his hand up slowly, traveling over them like the rungs of a ladder, and brushed his fingers below her breasts. He felt the shapes of each breath under his hands as she kissed him back, and gradually, her pulse relaxed into his. He was pleased he'd negotiated for ten minutes.

The more he kissed her, pulling her towards him to lie entangled on the bed, the more he became conscious of other things. It was no wonder she liked sex; it was probably the one time she ever got out of the hellscape that was her incomprehensible head. He slid his hand to the button of her jeans, which had not strictly been negotiated but which felt like the right thing to do, and her hips keened gratefully against his palm, her back arching towards him. He forewent the button in favor of dragging his hand down the zipper, lodging the heel of his hand between her legs and holding it there. She ground against him, appreciative, and he bit at her lip once, gently.

A small beep went off and he blinked, pulling back in alarm. "Five minutes," she said in explanation, and then rolled over him, straddling him on the bed. He hadn't even seen her set a timer, but he didn't ask questions. She turned her attention to his shirt, tugging it up from beneath him and pulling it carefully over his head.

She spread her palms over his chest, the pads of her fingers hovering temporarily over the slightly pebbled surface, and leaned forward, kissing him again. He slid his hands along her thighs, reaching up to curve around her bum and then traveling up to her spine, pressing into her waist. She shifted against his erection—yes, he was hard, had been hard from the start and was only getting more so right from the outset of 'sex dream'—and right in that moment, he thought:  _She knows precisely how hard I am._

Smart girls were such spectacular creatures.

The rest of their allotted ten minutes was devoted to purposes of friction, her hips against his. His tongue parted her lips, fingers parsing her hair, grasping her curls with both hands. She reached behind her to trace her palm along his thigh, and then, before he knew it—before he was ready—the alarm had once again gone off.

"Get up," she said, pulling him to his feet and pulling his trousers down, leaving them around his knees before he even registered her tongue had set about its work. There was something so hasty about that, so artlessly lustful, and then of course there had been something about his prostate, which had been… mortifying and sublime.

Which brought them, essentially, to now.

"You did say casual, didn't you?" she said impatiently, and he sighed.

"Casual means low commitment, not low effort. Slow down."

"Meaning what?" she demanded, but while she was irritated and snappish, anticipating mockery, he decided to give her an actual answer, predicting that would better suit both their needs.

"Get on the bed," he said, and she opened her mouth to argue, but he sighed again. "Get on the bed," he repeated. "We already negotiated this. It's my time."

Her eyes narrowed, but she agreed. It had, after all, been pre-negotiated. This time, he snuck a look at her breasts, which were perfect. Not that breasts were ever imperfect, but hers were firm and round and accented with little elevated peaks, actively intrigued by his contributions to the encounter. He slid her jeans past her hips, then pulled them off, one leg at a time. She allowed it, warily, though she rested her foot flat against his chest for a moment, keeping him at a distance.

He brushed his lips across the arch of her foot and released her, letting it fall away.

"I could make you come very quickly," he explained, trailing his fingers up the inside of her thigh. "Scientifically speaking, it's a simple matter of applying friction to the clitoris, and if you're already wet…" He trailed off, reaching between her legs and observing her sharpened intake of breath when his fingertips brushed the slickness there. "And you are," he said, "so this would be no trouble at all."

He nudged her legs wider, stroking the inside of her thighs with one hand as he parted the lips of her cunt with two fingers, taking care to linger near the velvet softness. She was watching him, of course, constantly observant even when she was being willfully oblivious, and he slid one finger inside her, stroking her with his thumb before glancing up to meet her eye.

"I'd just have to keep doing this," he told her. "You'd come in a few seconds."

She squirmed a little, knowing better than to disagree.

"But," he continued, "my goal isn't to make you come as  _fast_  as possible. You wouldn't need me to do that," he pointed out. "A vibrator could do the same work without a contract."

He bent forward to kiss her where his thumb had been, pulsing his lips lightly.

"I want to make you suffer," he murmured to her, and to his gratification, she shivered. "I want you to want me so badly it feels like pain. You know when sex is really good, Granger? When you don't want it to end," he informed her, trailing his lips along the curve of her thigh, "but at the same time, you can't take it."

"Is this the sex god talking?" she asked. She was mocking him now, true, but her voice was hoarse, and she was gliding her fingers through his hair.

Touch.

"No." He slid his tongue against her, lightly, and then dragged himself up to kiss her, firmly, his fingers still stroking inside her, until she gasped in his mouth. "Not a god," he said, running his tongue along the swell of her lip. "Just familiar with the necessary research."

"How… scientific of you." She was panting already, getting close, and he tutted softly to himself; that wouldn't do. He'd promised her torment. He slid his fingers further in, then slowly out, waiting for the tell-tale whimper.

There it was.

When he heard it, he kissed her again, then slid down her torso, positioning himself between her legs. He was already hard again, which was frankly ideal. He wasn't going to end this night satisfied with some little perineum tricks, however cleverly expedient.

If he had anything to say about it, which contractually he did, then they'd both be well and rightly fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone seemed to be having a shitty week last week from the sounds of it, so this is for all of you. But also for purplecaboose for your talented premonition and your v reasonably afraid-of-the-dentist kids, nymphadoraholtzmann because all bi panic feels like something I do at least partially for you, and friskypony, as a major thank you for pimping my books (I am a hapless salesman). Quote is from Heartbreakers, a classic tale of rival lady cons: "I could be the Antichrist or have the intelligence of a thermos, but these are not matters the male penis ponders."


	7. Totally Buggin'

**Chapter 7: Totally Buggin'**

_Pre-orgasm  
6 July 2002_

Around the time her legs had begun to cramp from perilously quaking and her stomach had transfigured itself into one tightly unsolvable knot and she could feel the sweat between her scapulae and most significantly, behind the knees she had thrown over his shoulders, she had become increasingly conscious of the fact that she was nearly there but not yet, not really, and she was considering giving him instructions but she didn't really know what to instruct, because honestly she'd never really liked oral sex and Ron was certainly much worse at it, never really grasping that what he was doing with his tongue was somehow both  _too much_  and also  _not enough_ , and so at this point in her sexual education she wasn't sure if what she wanted was more or less, or if maybe she needed him to suck a bit more arduously or something, but either way she didn't want to tell him he was doing it wrong if she couldn't figure out how and anyway she was close, truly, she was so so close, in fact she was so close it was starting to ache in her muscles and she was beginning to wonder if it was actually  _her_  fault she couldn't come, and right before she opened her mouth to coaxingly suggest he just fuck her instead, he suddenly withdrew and pulled her hips towards him, and she couldn't tell exactly if she was relieved or…

No, yeah. Relieved.

It wasn't like he wasn't good at whatever he was doing down there. He was, but in her experience sex was simpler when she was focusing on the other person. The parameters for meeting the desires of others were more substantial, easily tested, whereas she had always been an enigma, difficult to figure out, complex even to herself. What did she want from other people, who almost never cared what she wanted anyway? No idea. It was like testing an experiment without a hypothesis, just blindly throwing other people's data at a wall. And it wasn't like she'd ever been able to ask about it, either. Once she had asked Ginny what she liked in bed and Ginny had described something so positively medieval Hermione had been forced to ask Harry if  _he_  had enjoyed it, and he had said no not really, so then she was back where she started.

What other people wanted from her, what  _they_  needed? That was a cake and a half to figure out. She'd spent years doing it for Harry, and back then there had been a Dark Lord and probable murder on the line, so it was slightly more demanding than an orgasm.

Strangely, perhaps incongruously, masturbation had always been fairly straightforward. It allowed her to control whatever fantasy she chose inside her head. To Draco Malfoy's credit, he wasn't completely outside the figment she might have dreamt up to provide herself ten minutes of stress release. He had a man's body now, not a boy's, which was interesting. She had seen it happen to Ron—between the gangly ages of seventeen and Auror training it was impossible to ignore the blank canvas of his torso becoming more deliberately lined—but she had mostly not been paying attention to Draco while he had been in the process of Becoming a Man. He had muscle in his arms and in his thighs and on his stomach and his chest and part of her thought, amused, if she could just have him sit still for a moment, maybe she could  _imagine_  some perfect version of him fucking her without worrying about his actual human needs, and that would be enough to let her finish on her own.

But she had some concept he might not appreciate that, and besides, the penetrative aspect had already been negotiated.

"You are just…  _all_  in your head," he remarked with a furrowed glance, which unfortunately reminded her he was actually present and not a spectre of her imagination. She really did not mind blow jobs, mostly because she knew she was very good at them and therefore if she didn't want sex to take very long she could always put her partner (okay, Ron, so it was mostly Ron) soundly to bed in a matter of minutes. Sure, there would have been some cajoling (come on, let me return the favor, no no I'm fine, I like doing it, let's just go to sleep) but in general there was the understanding they were both mostly satisfied, and they were. She wanted to please him, to be good at sex, and she was. He wanted to finish, and he did. Mutually beneficial.

"You're doing a very good job," she assured Draco, thinking again about the sweat behind her knees and whether he was aware of it. If she could just slip away and give herself thirty seconds of personal attention, that would surely be sufficient. Possibly even ten or fifteen.

Draco, however, did not seem to take this remark at face value. In fact he seemed a little bit frustrated by her having said it, so she launched upright just enough to reach him, reassuring him by pulling him towards her. He had been right, anyway, that if he'd just kept stroking her she might've finished that way, so maybe if she could just wrangle him into proper position with an appropriate amount of friction, that dizzying little sense of not-quite-there-but-pressingly-imminent would eventually concede to go away. She did, after all, have quite a lot of work to do. Yes, it was technically Friday night, but only for a few more hours. If she wanted the Lily Moon article to go to press first thing Monday morning then she would have to start writing, and furthermore she would also have to draft a note to Padma, which was going to be a far more challenging task.

"Everything is very complicated for you, isn't it?" Draco remarked off-handedly to no one. Again, Hermione got the sense that maybe he was making fun of her, but then he was on the bed and kissing her stomach and pulling her hips into his, so it was difficult to tell. "Would it be easier," he murmured to her ilium, "if you had more control?"

"What?"

He eased her legs on either side of his hips, and she shuddered a little at the feel of his erection against the now-throbbing heat between her legs. All physio-anatomical signs pointed to nearly-there; particularly once he slid his thumb against her again, either for experimentation or torment purposes.

It seemed they had progressed to the penetrative portion of the evening, because he slid inside her and she gasped; he did, too, sort of, though it was more a shuddering hiss through his teeth. Regardless, she was fairly certain it felt good for both of them. There was a renewed sense of proximity, that same annoying urgency, and he took her hand, sucking lightly on her index and middle fingers before letting her hand fall down to her clitoris.

"Go ahead," he said.

"Go ahead what?"

"Go ahead, touch yourself," he told her. He was sitting up on his haunches, which did give her a marvelous view of his abdomen and chest. Artistically speaking it was beautiful composition, exquisite, as if her legs were the artful frame for his musculature, and his hair was falling into his grey eyes and, well… fine, so he wasn't unattractive. He eased her leg onto his shoulder, turning to brush his lips against the inside of her knee, and while she was thinking again about the unavoidable pool of sweat that lingered there, she decided, conclusively, that maybe he didn't mind it.

"Are you sure?" she said, suspicious of any sexual traps, but he rolled his eyes.

"The single-orgasm model of intercourse is, as you would say, extremely male," he told her. "I'll do the next one."

It seemed suddenly highly possible he wasn't actually making fun of her, and that perhaps he fully intended to, as he said, do the next one. "Fine," she conceded, and lifted her leg from his shoulder to let it fall beside his hip, helping her round her back. Better angle. She slid her fingers on either side of her clitoris, determining again what she already knew: This would not take long.

He slid out and in. A thrust, one might say, but in semi-slow motion. "Do that again," she gasped, feeling herself tighten reflexively around him.

He smiled, or smirked, and did as she asked.

Another gasp: "Again."

The benefit of their pre-negotiated foreplay, extended as it had been, was that every subsequent sensation compounded and amplified. She felt conscious of every place they touched, her fingers quickening while his hips increased their pace, and she considered closing her eyes but didn't, choosing instead to look at the way the nails of her free hand dug into the muscle of his chest. She watched him inhale sharply, the motion of his ribs expanding, and decided this was actually much better than doing it alone. Normally she depended on her mind to tailor the situation to her liking (her brilliance was hardly limited to academia), but Draco Malfoy was really quite good-looking when he wasn't making fun of her, and he seemed like he wouldn't be insulted if she didn't come right away. She was pretty sure she was going to, anyway, and right around the time she noticed the little shiver of his shoulders and the parting of his lips—right as she thought, my god, I think Draco Malfoy is  _enjoying_  having sex with me right now and it's not even about him at the moment, how positively bewildering—she felt her tangle of sensations build to a sudden, soaring conclusion, and she gripped his hips with a strangled moan, forcing him to a halt while she shuddered with violent gratification around his cock.

It took a moment to catch her breath; more than a moment. Quite a long time, actually, before the waves of rupture subsided, and then he tilted his head, scrutinizing her.

"Good?" he asked.

"Good," she exhaled.

Then he fell forward onto his forearms, stretching one arm over her head. "Good," he repeated, and kissed her, licking his tongue along her top lip while he wrestled one hand under her hip. "Let's keep going."

 _Let's keep going_. What a concept. Before she could say anything or even draft a possible response, he was thrusting into her anew, and while she did not care for the word 'thrust' and silently resented that no better vocabulary existed for it, she felt him build another knot inside her, vaulting her chin up to kiss her neck. That particular motion was… difficult at first. She didn't like being touched in vulnerable places without warning, and if he was going to leave a bruise she wasn't thrilled about his animalistic need to mark her, but then she thought, well, this is erotically terrifying, I am both aroused and mildly in terror, and also is this what it feels like to let my mind go positively blank?

She came again, louder this time, far more suddenly. How had it even happened? Yes, true, he'd situated himself precisely where the angle was deepest and yes, he had obviously manipulated the amount of surface area receiving stimulation, and fine, to her understanding that was generally how sex worked in terms of basic kinesiology, but in practice it was almost like magic; swish-and-flick, then boom.  _Wingardium Leviosa_ , ipso facto, holy hell. He put his mouth on hers and let her whimper into it, half-laughing, half-panting, like maybe he knew this would happen. Like maybe he was psychic like that, and that's why he'd been fine to wait.

"Good?" he asked again.

She appreciated his collaborative spirit. Also, his endurance.

"Let's keep going," she said, and rolled over him on the bed, forcing him onto his back.

Orgasm Number Three was achieved with his thumb on her clit while she was on top, two hands tightly braced on her headboard. Number Four was after he flipped her onto her back at an impractical angle crosswise on the mattress, holding her head up with one hand while she struggled not to let herself slide boneless to the floor. Number Five, something she had once believed anatomically impossible or at least highly unlikely, was when she rolled onto her stomach and he kissed his way down her spine, caressing the base of her low back for a moment before sliding his fingers into her, then smacking her arse in a silent command to lift her hips, replacing his hands with his mouth. She almost said  _you don't have to do that again_  but he was telling her she tasted good, and by that point she was already trembling and besides, she was not an idiot, and thus did not say no. By the time he came, arms around her ribs while he choked a groan into the back of her neck and her shoulders, she decided she had clearly gone into the negotiation lacking crucial information.

For example, she had the faint but undeniable idea that until that moment, she had never actually understood sex at all.

"Is it always like that?" she breathed out hazily, eyes closed and limbs buzzing while her cheek was pressed, exhausted, into the mattress, and he chuckled in her ear, nipping at the base of her jaw.

"No, not always."

"Sometimes?"

"Yeah, sometimes."

She sat up slightly, twisting around to look at him. "I feel like I should thank you," she said very seriously, "but I don't know specifically why."

"Well, credit where credit is due. You weren't wrong," he assured her, rolling onto his side. "You're very good."

"Yes, I know."

"Though not because of the… prostate stuff."

She arched a brow, doubtful.

"Not  _just_  because of that," he clarified, too conceited to be properly sheepish, "but, you know. You… let go. It was—" He broke off, frowning. "I suppose I didn't know if you could be like that with me."

"With you?" That was a surprising qualifier.

"Well, you hate me."

An odd time to bring that up. "I don't hate you."

"You like me?" he asked, skeptical.

"Well, I don't  _not_  like you," she said, and then, feeling rather put on the spot, she ventured a change in subject. "I need to, um—"

She made a throat-clearing sound that meant 'I have to use the toilet in order to not get a urinary tract infection,' (See also: That Time She Thought She Was Actually Dying, 2000) and he nodded hastily.

"Sure," he said. "Do you want me to leave, or…?"

"No, you don't have to," she assured him, pulling on a t-shirt and knickers and slipping out to the bathroom, pondering as she shut the door behind her why on Godric Gryffindor's green earth she'd said  _that_. She didn't come to much of a conclusion, though, and proceeded to eye herself in the mirror for a moment, cataloguing the damage. Her skin was reddened in places his mouth had been, mostly along her clavicle and neck. Her hair was a mess from his fingers, but she looked nice, she thought. Her cheeks were a little flushed and her eyes were wide and not very drunk-looking, and she seemed… well-tumbled, which was not something she had technically aspired to be before, but there they were.

When she came back he had pulled on his underwear, a pair of characteristically suitable black boxer-briefs, but hadn't technically made himself comfortable. "Well," he said, clearing his throat. "I don't… did you want me to, uh—"

"I sleep on the left side," she said, and he blinked.

"Oh. Oh, yes. Left." He coughed, shifting over to the right, and she got in bed beside him.

"We can…" She hesitated. "If you wanted to, um—"

Words, she guessed, were pointless, so she slid in closer and reflexively, he did the same. She'd been right, then, that he liked physical closeness. She knew that already, of course, that she was right about that and most things, but seeing it in action was something else altogether.

She figured that was probably the best way to thank him, so she nudged in close enough that she could rest her head on his shoulder. In response, he carefully put his arm around her waist. "You know, not to overstep," she said, "but it seems like someone with your intimacy cravings should really not limit themselves to casual relationships." He groaned, pulling away, but she dragged him back, impatient with his pointless denial of the obvious. "I'm just  _saying_ —"

"I don't crave intimacy, Granger." His voice was gruff, defensive, and mocking of someone, though she wasn't convinced it was her. "I just know better than to get invested in something that isn't going to last."

Well, that was wise of him, at least. She closed her eyes, preparing to sleep for an hour or so before the sun came up, but she could hear his heart thudding and his brain whirring and because she knew what it was like to be trapped inside her own head, she cracked one eye, looking up at him.

"What?" she said, and he glared at her.

"What do you mean 'what'?"

"Fine." She closed her eyes again, then shifted uncomfortably. There was never anywhere to put her arm, which was why she did not usually care for this. "Good night," she said, thinking that would be that. He at least smelled very good.

"Good night," he said.

She tilted her chin up, adjusting so her nose was slightly closer to his neck, and inhaled. She was comfortable enough, and anyway exhaustion was in her favor. If she slept for an hour, that would at least be sufficient to get started, and then—

"What was it?" Draco suddenly asked, and Hermione opened her eyes, annoyed. Had she not  _just asked_ —

"What was  _what_ , Malfoy?"

"Your percentage with Weasley."

She groaned. "You're in my bed and you want to talk about Ron?"

He rolled on top of her, pinning her to the sheets, and glared down at her.

"I just want to know," he said, "what the number was."

The male desire for dominance was predictably taxing, but the weight of him on top of her was still better than her arm going numb. "Why?"

"It must have been disastrous, wasn't it? Seeing as you broke up with him."

"That's really not what happened."

"Well, it was enough to ruin your relationship, wasn't it?" he pointed out, and she sighed internally; he certainly had her there. "So, you know. For… research purposes. What was it?"

He was very stiff for some reason. In her unwillingness to answer she let her hands travel aimlessly around his back, observing the various areas of tension. He had a knot near his rhomboid, on top of his scapula, and she began kneading mindlessly into it, just to have something to do with her hands while she probed her own thoughts.

"It wasn't good," she told him. "As you might have guessed."

"Yes. I gathered."

She squirmed with discomfort. "But it wasn't just that, it was—"

"Granger," he growled. "What was it?"

When the knot in his shoulder was almost gone, or at least partially subsided, she finally sighed, "If I tell you, will you let me go to sleep?"

"Yes."

"Promise?"

"I'm promising, aren't I?"

"No comments, no conversation. I'm telling you and we're going to sleep. Are we clear?"

"Yes, I keep telling you, yes," he tutted with impatience, and she nudged him away.

"Don't look at me," she said, pointing to the window. "Face that way."

"Granger,  _honestly_ —"

"Do it or I won't tell you," she warned, and he gave her a look of  _I really hope you come by some significant discomfort someday_  and she replied with  _I certainly have and I surely will again_ , but inevitably, he sighed.

He flipped onto his left side, and after a moment to look at the red mark she'd unintentionally left on his back, she inched closer, carving herself an orbit around him.

"It was 65%," she confessed to his vertebrae, which were dutifully impassive. "Okay? Now go to sleep."

He didn't say anything. Which was ideal, and in fact precisely what she'd asked for. She didn't love the memory of her previous relationship's compatibility, and hated especially to relive it; the way Ron had been relieved and she had said, aghast with disappointment,  _That's it?_

 _That's it._ The words that had killed them, gradually slitting their respective throats, which he had blamed her for and which she had insisted, rightly, were justified. 65% was barely a passing mark. Ron had thought oh good, at least it rounds up to a hundred, and she, who somehow became the traitor, had thought have I really wasted this much time?

It had been the beginning of the end, and Hermione Granger hated endings.

But then she slid an arm around Draco's waist and closed her eyes, drifting to sleep with the motion of his ribs to anchor her pulse. Breath in, hearts beating, breath out, as if nothing had ever ended at all.

* * *

Hermione woke him up an hour later and asked if he'd like coffee, and when he said yes she pointed him to the kitchen and told him she'd like a cup as well. He did not make coffee for women he was sleeping with, but, as he reminded himself, she did not count, as they had only agreed to one sexual encounter and anyway, it was over now. He made the coffee, listened for a few minutes as she told him her plan for the article she was writing and asked him did this sentence make sense? And he said you could simplify it like this and she said yes good idea, thank you, and then when her attention was clearly gone from him he went home.

As far as sexual encounters went, it wasn't so bad.

"Why are you telling me it wasn't so bad in the same tone of voice you used when your grandfather died?" Theo asked him the next day. "First of all, I didn't ask, and second of all, I didn't just meet you this morning. I've known you for at least a week."

"I thought you would find it academically interesting," Draco insisted, defensive on behalf of his burgeoning sense of dread. "Aren't you curious what our compatibility was in the morning?"

"Let's say for posterity's sake that I am," Theo permitted with a nod of lofty acquiescence.

"Then for posterity's sake, I would tell you it was 32%," Draco said, opting to take a tone of no tone whatsoever, and Theo gave him a little look of snide impatience.

"I suppose it would do no good to remind you that your general personality is probably not improving your results," Theo remarked unhelpfully. "Why on earth should you ever be compatible with anyone, Malfoy, when you have never arrived at a productive emotional conclusion in your entire life, much less committed to one?"

"I was committed to someone once," Draco reminded him, "and she left, didn't she?"

"I'm sorry, time is a cruel mistress and my memory fails; remind me what that specific form of commitment entailed?" Theo suggested, picking up a set of vibrant lilac dress robes and tucking them under his arm. "As I recall, it looked very like two people occasionally sleeping together only when it suited one of you, up until it suited one of you more pleasingly to altogether stop."

"Well, I was  _going_  t- you know what? That's not the point," Draco informed him, bristling. "And anyway, I only bring up the compatibility increase because it's, you know, objectively quite interesting."

"Is it?" Theo echoed. "Is it  _really_ , though?"

"Well—"

"Mr Nott," interrupted Twilfitt, or possibly Tattings. "May I ask why you are leaving with four sets of women's dress robes?"

"Hm? Oh, this is shoplifting," Theo informed him. "Shall I surrender to your custody now, or can it perhaps wait five minutes? I am unfortunately in the middle of my friend's emotional ineptitude," he lamented, "and I would be very appreciative if you would allow me to decimate him as necessary before matters of my criminality progress."

"I'm not inept," Draco told him. "But the acceleration is an anomaly, and isn't that worth a study?"

"I'm happy to charge the purchase to your late father's account if you are so inclined," offered a gracious Tattings and/or Twilfitt to Theo. "I know a man such as yourself has little patience to be bothered with loose change."

"Anomalies are by definition unworthy of study," Theo said to Draco, and then to Twilfitt or Tattings he said, "No no, I'm  _stealing_. You see?" he added, gesturing to himself and, more abstractly, his unconscionable pursuits. "I have no intention to pay."

"Well, we know you're good for it," said probably-Twilfitt, adding, "What did you say the occasion was?" just as Draco gave an exasperated sigh.

"Can I not bring up a notable anecdotal fact without you accusing me of—" He stopped, frowning. "What are you accusing me of, again?"

"Theft," Theo told maybe-Tattings, and then, to Draco, "Feelings."

"Never," exclaimed both.

"Just submit to the slow trudge of mortality and move on," Theo advised.

Twilfitt and Draco exchanged a glance of bemusement.

"If I  _must_ be more specific," Theo said, turning exasperatedly to Twilfitt-Tatting, "then I would suggest you summon an Auror to deal with my appalling crimes against capitalism, while to you," he continued, turning to Draco, "I would suggest simply admitting you like her and acting accordingly. Or, better yet, acting the way a person who is not you would act."

"Perhaps if I send the bill via owl-post?" Twilfitt suggested, and in a fit of entitled frustration, Theo deposited the robes on the floor in a huff, gesturing for Draco to follow.

"I don't  _like_  her," Draco insisted, stepping incautiously over the canary yellow evening gown that Theo had, for some reason, taken an enormous amount of care in choosing, "and even if I did, it wouldn't matter. What difference does it make whether the number goes up?" he muttered, woefully resentful. "It's still abysmal, and besides, she's dumped people for less."

Say, for example, Ron Weasley, whose percentage with her was twice as much and clearly, she hadn't found that persuasive at all. At some point their increase, which was halted and unpredictable at best, would simply stop.

And what then?

"Is she supposed to simply guess how you feel?" Theo prompted, speaking in what must have been a hypothetical, due to Draco's non-possession of any relevant feelings. "She can only be expected to read the lines, Draco, not what's between them. And by the way, might I perhaps offer you a loan with an obscenely high interest rate?"

"Usury is a sin, not a crime," Draco reminded him, yanking him away from a brothel. "And I keep telling you, I feel nothing."

'Nothing' was of course an exceedingly clever word for a strange, haunting torment, which was certainly not  _liking_ , as it did not by any means feel good. Draco went so far as to contact Pansy in his discomfort (she could usually whip up a cocktail to solve any sensation of indigestion) but she, it seemed, was hard at work on her wedding, and specifically in the choosing of a dress which could successfully make her enemies, as she put it, weep.

As things worsened, Theo became similarly difficult to reach. His next attempt at criminality was the unlawful practice of marriage and family counseling, which took up much of the next several days and was troubling mostly in that he was booked straight through the week. Draco was only barely able to book a midday session on Tuesday, by which point he had already suffered an entire day of aggressive psychological spiraling and Theo's secretary (one of Pansy's many elves who apparently had nothing better to do) had mistakenly double-booked.

"Listen," Draco said, wrestling the desk lamp away from the self-flagellating elf, "I think it's fairly clear Potter's not going to arrest you for this."

"Mm, yes, and how does that make you feel?" Theo asked, nudging his spectacles down his nose and eyeing his clients.

"Her mother just has so many bloody cats," lamented the young man on Theo's sofa. "And I don't want to sound paranoid, but in this case I really do think they're out to get me."

"Oh, darling, they  _are_ ," soothed the brunette beside him, "but why should that have anything to do with your ability to get an erection?"

"Well, I think we're making great progress," Theo deduced, glancing at the clock. "Unfortunately, that's all the time we have. William, if I may," he added, turning to the man, "I think it's best you begin offering daily homage to the cats, on the off-chance one or more are reincarnated deities or possibly vindictive fae in disguise. And Catherine, might I suggest masturbation, or perhaps absconding to the woods? Wonderful," he said, rising to his feet and escorting them to the door. "Now, as for you," Theo continued, turning to Draco, "has anything new actually happened, or are we still in the same place we were last session?"

"The thing is, I want to ask her about Patil," Draco replied, collapsing mournfully into the now-vacant sofa as Theo resumed his seat, crossing one too-long leg over the other. "But I'm concerned that if she replies with something heinously idiotic," (as she surely would), "I may inadvertently damage her feelings."

"Or—and hear me out," Theo posed, steepling his fingers at his lips, "are you perhaps worried she'll continue expressing romantic feelings for Patil instead of you?"

"Of course not," Draco said, turning to recline on the sofa. For whatever reason his shoulders had been feeling especially tense.

"Just a quick question," Theo said, brushing his quill thoughtfully over his mouth. "Do you  _want_  to be Granger's friend?"

"Absolutely not," Draco said, wholly aggrieved by the prospect. "The woman is a menace."

"Then what do you want?"

To fuck her. Or hold her. To continuously suffer her careless degradation to his fragile sense of self. To let her puzzle him out, detail by unwilling detail, without him having to say a bloody word. To eat a meaningless lunch on a merciless Thursday whilst sitting across from her, or next to her. Or diagonally, depending on the layout of the table.

Or, if a table could not be found, then to put his conciliatory head between her thighs.

"It's unclear," Draco determined, and Theo nodded sagely, scribbling something onto his notepad which, later, a passerby would remark to his associate was a beautifully rendered drawing of la Piazza San Marco during a thunderstorm, complete with detailed meteorology.

Draco, meanwhile, gave a heavy sigh, glancing up at the ceiling Theo had charmed to mimic a calm spring day in Regent's Park. "This is very nice," he commented. "You have an eye for interior design."

Theo shrugged, evidently too listless to acknowledge their compatible halves. "Too nice," he grumbled, and to Draco's look of confusion, he clarified, "Someone's applied for a license on my behalf and gotten the approval expedited."

"Really?" Draco asked, lifting his head with surprise. "So you're… legally practicing, then?"

"Not anymore, I'm not," Theo said, tossing the notepad out the window behind him in an expression of gloomy finality. "Besides, I suspect it only happened because I've got a Warlock and his mistress as regulars."

"It's been three days," Draco said.

"Well, you know how the trouble tends to start around eighteen months," Theo sighed, to which Draco nodded his grudging agreement. "It's all very 'does she really love me or is it just because I kept her out of prison' and 'will he ever leave his wife or am I wasting my fertile years on a man who isn't even going to die soon,' so it's all just the perfect storm, really."

In the end, Draco broke his attempt at distance and asked Hermione to a meaningless lunch on a merciless Thursday, which she accepted.

"—and the thing is, I would not have thought myself very convinced by bodice-rippers as a substantive form of literature, but even I have to admit the publishing industry is failing, except for these m-readers—have you heard of m-readers? They're like having all your books in one magical screen, it's really quite amazing, though of course I do love the feel of a book—but anyway, these m-reader sales are  _increasing_ , and no genre more so than romance, and when they asked me to do an article on it I thought 'my god how dull, smut books on screens, brava society,' but in the end the idea that women may actually save the publishing industry is really quite compelling, and—"

She broke off, glancing at him.

"You look a little nauseated," she commented, and to Draco's dismay, she reached across the table to press the back of her hand to his forehead, then his cheeks, and then searched intently around his eyes. "Are you feeling ill?"

"No," he sulked into his salad.

"Hm," she said, as if she were concerned for his well-being or, for fuck's sake,  _fondly worried_  about him. "Well, be sure to hydrate."

Then she returned to the subject of the state of romance publishing, or something. She had just finished telling him something about the evolution of two characters through a meticulous narrative choreography of skillfully measured emotional growth when he was forced to say, rather unprompted, "How did it go with Patil?"

She looked up, surprised. "How did it… go?"

"Yes, how did it go."

"Didn't I already tell you?"

Yes, he supposed, if he counted her note on Monday morning that said only:  _I feel much better after our conversation, thank you._

Which was nice, but which he did  _not_  count, as it implied they had merely spent the evening chatting about Padma Patil and had not proceeded to have extremely very good sex.

As if that might have happened solely in his head.

(He made a mental note to discuss this possibility with Theo.)

"Not really," he said, hoping to keep the tone of desperation from his voice.

"Oh. Well." She set her fork down. "I suppose I do understand her point now."

She paused for a moment, staring into nothing, and then directed her attention back to him.

"Do you want to come to a concert with me?" she asked tangentially. "In Dublin, on Saturday."

To his dismay he gave a ragged exhale, like a total fucking fool, having not noticed he was holding his breath in anticipation for wherever her mind would go; like, perhaps, to someone who wasn't him. Only it  _was_  him, so thank Salazar for that.

"Yes," he said, flippantly. "Yes, sure, I suppose."

"Excellent." She picked up her fork, giving him a radiant smile that rendered him, down to the marrow of his bones, completely, helplessly stupid.

"I really think you and Lily will get along," she remarked, daintily placing a forkful of spinach in her mouth, and in response he accidentally spilled his water down the front of his shirt, soddening his tie.

* * *

It wasn't so much that Hermione  _hoped_  to set Draco Malfoy up with Lily Moon. It was that she happened to be a very logical person who was able to dismiss extraneous details, which allowed her to focus only on things she knew to be true. For example, she knew what both parties were looking for. Well, correction, she knew what Lily was looking for, as she'd made it very clear. Someone who, at the end of the day, was going to be there for her, which was the type of person Draco Malfoy had already proven himself to be. Granted, some of his routine availability seemed to be a matter of helpless curiosity or boredom, at least when it came to herself and to Theo. But to Hermione, that seemed reliable enough.

The extraneous details were, in this case, her own feelings on the matter. Luckily she had already had a chance to discuss them at length, and therefore did not need to address them with any further prodding.

First had been Padma, to whom Hermione had apologized profusely while expressing extreme regret. That, luckily, had been easy to smooth over. Having already come to the conclusion that she was in the wrong, there was not much to say outside of plainly requesting forgiveness.

"The truth is, I do think I could see myself with you," Padma remarked, curled up on one end of the sofa while Hermione faced her from the other. "I think that's part of what had me all riled up in the first place, because you're not wrong and I didn't particularly want to admit that to myself." She was quiet for a moment, thoughtful, and then she said, "The way I see it, the percentages help us determine the people we  _could_  be happy with, which is certainly you, but obviously also Ron. And shouldn't it make a difference who we choose?"

"Yes, absolutely," Hermione assured her, relieved that at least she had not been  _hugely_  delusional about her attraction to Padma. One or two smaller delusions were to be expected when it came to interpreting the human psyche, which was fluid and shapeless at best. "But really, I do want to be your friend."

"I do, too," Padma said, relieved, and from there they dove into a discussion of Bastien Queensbury and Lily Moon, followed by the fallout from Padma's argument with Ron (some shouting followed by some sex, which thankfully Padma glossed over), followed, inevitably, by Hermione's admission as to what had transpired between herself and Draco.

"An odd choice," Padma remarked of Draco Malfoy. By then they had moved onto revisiting the cheese from yesterday's attempt at dinner, and Padma was looking over Hermione's draft of the Lily Moon article, pausing only to discuss the relevant details of their sex lives. "He's handsome enough, but a bit of a prick, isn't he?"

"Oh, more than a bit of one," Hermione assured her. "But I don't think he means it."

"So he's just an insincere arsehole?"

"No, the arseholing is definitely sincere," Hermione corrected herself. "The latent misanthropy does have a tendency to bubble to the surface. But below that, I think," she hypothesized, frowning a bit, "there might be a tiny bit of… hope, possibly? As if the prickly exterior might be a cover for something horrendously soft and squishy underneath."

"Well, if you say so," Padma doubtfully replied. "I hope the sex was good, at least."

"It was, actually. A pity it was just the once," Hermione added, sighing. "I can't say I wouldn't do it again, given the option."

"Surely you could?" Padma countered. "If it was good, why wouldn't you?"

"Well, it just seems a bit foolish, don't you think?" Hermione said, having already considered as much. "Why invest my time in someone who doesn't want a relationship?"

She certainly wasn't going to make the mistake of assuming someone was interested in her  _twice_. Much safer if she removed herself from the equation altogether.

Padma gave a firm nod, scribbling an arrow to move a clause from one sentence to another. "There's no need to waste your time on a man who says from the outset he doesn't want something serious," she said in agreement. "Either he doesn't know what he wants and is waiting for you to sort it out for him, or he's telling the truth and doesn't want to give you what  _you_ want, and either way no one has time for that. This is a lovely sentence," she remarked tangentially, pointing it out and exclaiming over it until Hermione forgot what they'd been discussing to begin with.

Harry, too, had been mostly in agreement. After expressing some dismay that Hermione had been intimate with Draco Malfoy (in the form of holding his hands over his ears and shout-singing  _God Save the Queen_  while Hermione described the relevant details of their sexual contract), he was finally able to address the important detail, which was whether or not Hermione should want to do it again.

"Aside from the obvious answer of me mentally vomiting into my shoes, I was sort of under the impression you were looking for more than casual sex," Harry told her. "Unless that's changed?"

She considered it. "I'm not  _opposed_  to casual sex," she said slowly, "though I don't see how it would end. I suppose I would just keep dating until I met someone?" After all, she had been thoroughly neglecting her compatibility spreadsheet, and much more data remained to be tracked.

"But then he would keep dating also," Harry pointed out. "Would that bother you?"

She considered it. On the one hand, another opportunity to sleep with him sounded like a rousing recreational triumph. On the other, she didn't particularly trust her own head not to come up with elaborate conceptions of what he might be doing with the rest of his time. For example, that week while telling her about an accidental explosion at work that revealed a cult of veela apocalyptics who had been living in a colony underground, Hermione had briefly pondered a scene in which Draco arose from below the earth with a beautiful blonde siren-creature clutched in both arms. Naturally  _they_  would both be perfectly compatible, seeing as one was coldly aloof and the other was a veela, and Hermione would attend the wedding as one of the other women in the room who had seen the groom naked at one time or another, buying the couple a celebratory silver cake knife and spending the evening making polite conversation until Theo inevitably stabbed someone with it.

No. If she could be just-friends with Padma, a person to whom she was attracted and hugely compatible with, then she could certainly be just-friends with Draco, a person to whom she was attracted and hugely  _in_ -compatible with. She was not, after all, an animal, and could therefore be trusted to use her infallible head.

She had the sense, though, that it would be easier to be just-friends with Draco if he were not available sexually, and upon enumerating some of his better qualities—he was always dressed well, for example, and his household charms were impeccable, plus he really did have quite genteel mannerisms and additionally, a spectacular dick—it occurred to her that perhaps she should simply find someone to set him up with. She was going to express this to Harry during their semi-nightly expedition chasing the possibility of Theo Nott through various seedy Knockturn locales when they happened upon the actual Theo Nott, who to her surprise was precisely where Harry had been so insistent he might imaginarily be.

"Nott," Harry sighed, and briefly, an enormous crescent of satisfaction danced across Theo's face before he turned with deliberation, revealing himself to be in the midst of a shirtless, gloveless fight. "You do realize this is not illegal? They have permits to host this fight night."

Hermione wondered why they had even gone there if Harry already knew that, but delicately did not point it out. Theo, meanwhile, delivered what appeared to be a fairly solid left hook into the ear of his opponent, sending them toppling gracelessly to the side.

"On the contrary," Theo argued, "the fighting is perfectly legal, but I've been drinking."

"Also legal," Harry informed him, "unless you're trying to tell me you're underage?"

Hermione glanced around, looking for Draco, but evidently he wasn't there that evening.

"Ah, but I've been drinking  _here_ ," Theo informed Harry triumphantly, dispatching his dazed opponent into the barricade of the ring, "and their liquor license is two months  _expired_."

With that, the round ended. "He's got you there," Hermione told Harry, gesturing around the room to the multitude of inebriated patrons. "That's a lot of arrests."

"A lot of life-ruining," Theo added, delirious with pleasure.

But to both Theo's dismay and Hermione's confusion, Harry merely looked uncomfortable.

"I've spoken to the owner about it," he said, not looking at them. "It's… not an issue."

That, Hermione thought, was more than unexpected. Similarly (for once) Theo managed to be silenced. "I," he began, and then, lacking anything sufficient, "What?"

"Harry," Hermione said, frowning. "I know it's not a very  _big_  crime, but it's certainly something. If I remember correctly, an expired liquor license is at least a—"

"It's not," Harry cut in gruffly. "They'll get a new license shortly. Come on," he added to Hermione, who was unfortunately at a total loss to explain his behavior. "Let's go."

He turned away and Theo leapt over the ring's barricade, experiencing what appeared to be a full spectrum of volatile emotions. The final one, Hermione observed, seemed to be confusion.

"So you're willing to let  _this_  slide, but not me?" Theo demanded, hand shooting out to catch Harry's arm. "What happened to not being above the law, Potter?"

"Just leave it, Nott," he snapped, turning away, but Theo refused to be shaken off.

"What does that mean? They broke the law, you're an Auror. If you're not going t-"

"This pub," Harry hissed, dropping his voice, "is owned by the son of a Warlock. The  _very same_  Warlock who happens to be close personal friends with Dawlish," he said with obvious irritation, "who also happens to be my boss. So if that's all—"

But Theo, as far as Hermione could see, was certainly not finished, and appeared to be mostly incensed. "Is this why you didn't arrest me for dealing illegal creatures?" he demanded. "Because the idiot who came to me to buy it was some Warlock's son, too?"

The muscle twitch beside Harry's jaw was confirmation enough. "Nott, for the love of god, just stay out of i-"

"And the counseling license." Hermione had no idea what that meant, but Theo seemed to. "That's it, isn't it? Fuck." Theo turned his head, spitting a little blood on the ground, and scowled at Harry. "I thought you were supposed to be a hero."

There was no doubt that one stung. Harry's green eyes went wide, and then immediately narrowed.

"Well, I'm not," Harry snarled in reply, turning to leave, but this time when Theo yanked him back he stumbled, almost as if his momentum had never been forward at all.

"If it's not illegal for me to be here, then it's not illegal for you, either," Theo said, gesturing to the blood on his knuckles as Hermione rolled her eyes. Boys, honestly. They had more testosterone than they knew what to do with. "Want to try actually fighting for a change, or would you rather hide behind your badge,  _Auror_  Potter?"

"You think you can beat me? I'm a trained Auror, Nott. Combat is part of the exam."

"Prove it," Theo beckoned.

They were really going to fight, weren't they? How barbaric. Hermione glanced around with a sigh, wishing Theo had simply slept with a prostitute so they could have all been out of there before midnight.

"You don't want me to hit you," Harry warned.

Theo shrugged. "I've got pain charms."

"I've got an early shift."

"So?"

"So don't waste my time, Nott."

Harry turned to leave, and, in solidarity and also in not wanting to be there any longer because the floor was sticky, Hermione moved to follow. Theo let them go this time, but he lifted his chin as he stalked backwards, ducking under the barrier to deliver himself back into the ring.

"If you knew what I was doing wasn't illegal," Theo called after Harry, "then you came here for me, didn't you?"

Harry's spine went rigid, and briefly, Hermione felt a small flare of concern. It wasn't as if a cornered Harry Potter wasn't some form of dangerous. (See also:  _Sectumsempra_  Is Not a Toy, 1997.) For a moment she considered intervening, possibly stepping in the way to disrupt Harry's progression, but in the end she noticed the look on Harry's face and decided to let him have a little fun.

Even if his idea of fun was leaping over the barricade and throwing a punch, hitting Theo square in the jaw and sending him flying into the barrier behind him.

"Are we done now?" Hermione sighed, deciding that she really needed to find more female friends, but Theo, more delighted than ever, merely straightened and spat to the side, giving Harry a devious, menacing smile.

"So the law's got an arm after all," he taunted, and in answer, Harry slid out of his shirt, tossing it to an ambivalent Hermione and beckoning to Theo as he circled him in the ring. It was all very questionable and homoerotic, she thought, which was something possibly worth pointing out to Harry, but then again maybe not. After all, he had been the only one out of all of them to fail to notice how many times he referred to Tom Riddle as handsome, or hell, to Draco Malfoy as  _sparkling_ , so maybe it was best to let him enjoy whatever delusions he had left.

Not that Tom Riddle wasn't handsome, or that Draco didn't have a bit of a noteworthy gleam.

So it wasn't as if Harry was necessarily  _wrong_ , per se.

"Hit me, Nott, try it," Harry warned, looking absolutely pleased as punch with himself, and as the two commenced what could only result in senseless brawling, Hermione made a very important decision.

She was going to set Draco Malfoy up with Lily Moon, and then she was not going to think about his penis anymore, and then everything was going to be fine.

* * *

Hermione's choice of wardrobe for the evening was an A-line dress with a bateau neckline, making her neck look long and her shoulders look elegant and her entire presence look completely, totally wrong for a stadium show in Dublin. She didn't seem to be self-conscious about it, either, even after noting his casual attire of black jeans and a white t-shirt, but then again she was never particularly self-conscious, so everything was precisely as it should have been and Draco, who was certainly not picturing her naked, did not feel sick at all.

"You look good," she said upon spotting his approach, ostensibly congratulating him on his ability to dress himself, and he decided to blurt out the first of his uncomfortable outbursts for the evening.

"You know I already know Lily Moon, right?" he asked her, and she frowned.

"We both know Lily Moon, Malfoy. She went to school with us."

"Well, yes, but—"

"She's different now," Hermione assured him. "And so are we, aren't we? I certainly wouldn't be here with you if this were five years ago."

He figured there was no sense arguing with that.

"So what's the plan, then? Are you going to negotiate her seduction on my behalf, or should I arrange it myself?" he asked her, bitter with irony, though uncertain what he hoped her response would be. Perhaps, if she slapped him, it might jolt him back into two months ago?

"Well, I assume that's up to you, but I thought we could get dinner first," she told him. "Hungry?"

She was monstrously unhelpful. What was the point, after all, of throwing an aristocratic tantrum if no one was there to indulge it? If a tree fell in the forest, would she even know he was dying inside?

"Yes," he sighed, and she seemed pleased, and he felt better because she was pleased, and for the love of vampiric fuck, now it was his bloody head that needed to shut up. Was it really only a matter of days ago that she was the height of madness and he was the voice of reason?

In the end they went to a pub near the show's venue, at which point Hermione offered to split some chips and Draco foggily remembered he had once had a rule about not splitting chips with women but what the fuck were rules, and they settled into a booth where he immediately ordered two whiskies and she mistakenly assumed one was for her.

"So," she said, reaching for a glass. "Any idea what Nott's next criminal act is going to be?"

As a matter of fact yes. Theo had said something about financial crimes, but the details had been so dull and the matter of Draco's own sanity so looming that he had not been paying much attention, and now of course he had to question whose side he was even on, because he wished he had paid close enough attention to tell her.

This was getting outrageous, he thought. Someone should really put a stop to it.

Provided that someone was not him.

He brushed her foot when he stretched his legs out under the table, immediately retracting them, though she didn't seem to notice. She reached over for a chip, thoughtfully picking out the one she wanted, and he wondered if she had considered her compatibility with each one. Was he one of the burnt ones? The shriveled little bits of potato no one wanted? Yes, it was terribly on the nose, but he couldn't help considering it. The last time he'd seen Lily Moon, she had been a beautiful girl who looked right through him. Hermione Granger, on the other hand, was—

"Whatever happened to your parents?" Hermione suddenly asked, and Draco blinked.

Hermione Granger was unpredictable, that was what.

"What?"

"Your parents," she repeated. "Where exactly do you live now?"

"Oh." He cleared his throat, adjusting his seat. "My father is serving a life sentence in Azkaban," he said dully, "and my mother has three more years before possibility of parole. I live in one of the smaller cottages on my family's estate."

"Oh." Her voice got very small. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked."

"Why not?" He shrugged. "I was nearly in Azkaban myself."

"I know, but…" She trailed off. "Well, I suppose I thought you deserved it at one point."

His, "Thanks, Granger," cost him very little, despite being drier than the whisky.

"No, I—" She broke off. "Well, it's confusing, isn't it? Harry's right, you know, that people should be held responsible for what they've done, but then…"

She trailed off again and he brought his glass to his lips, taking a sip.

"I deserve much worse than I got," he admitted. "But if it helps, I'm not entirely overjoyed with the outcome of my life."

She looked up sharply. "You think that helps?"

"Doesn't it?"

"No." She gave him a scrutinizing glance.

Truthfully, he suspected there was a reason he'd never been more than fifty-percent compatible with anyone, and his logic was far from Theo's take. Draco had a feeling he was meant to be alone until he managed to do one fucking thing right, and he was strongly aware he hadn't yet.

"Why do you think our percentage keeps going up?" he asked tangentially, glancing at Hermione's wrist as she raised her glass to her lips. 36%. Not great. Not bad. "Just wondered if you had any theories," he added, and she took a sip of her drink, considering it.

"I have a few," she admitted. "Nothing substantial. I suppose I'd have to know more."

"More what?"

"More about you." She drummed her nails against the table. "Sometimes I feel as if everyone around me is moving on some sort of invisible current and I'm not," she murmured as an afterthought, mostly to herself.

"Theo's going nowhere, if it helps."

"That's true." She swirled the liquid in her glass, looking up at him. "Anyway, the point is I don't know enough about you to know."

"Why would you need to know about me?"

"Well, it's about us, isn't it? Which means two parts, you and me."

The concept of 'us' felt like a very dangerous topic to have arrived at, or at the very least an unstable train to a troubling destination.

Draco cleared his throat, sitting up slightly. "I liked your article," he said, changing the subject again, and she looked up, eyes wide with surprise. "The one about Lily Moon and Bastien Queensbury," he clarified, "though the one about the romance publisher was also interest-"

"You read my articles?"

She said read, as in past tense. As if he did not  _read_  them, present tense, ongoing.

"Well, you talk about them so much," he reminded her stiffly, having been accused of some sort of unforgivable slight. "Am I just supposed to satisfy myself with the frenzy of your pre-written thoughts?"

She seemed positively bewildered. "But you think the news is stupid."

"Yes, and it is."

"So…"

"So…?"

"So you don't think it's stupid when I write it?"

No. He did not think it was stupid when she wrote it.

"It was a good article," he said, wanting to strangle her, firstly, and then himself. "I thought you made your point well and, you know, subtly. And you do a good job of keeping your voice out of it, making it just about the subj-"

"Do you want to have sex with me again?"

He broke off, startled, and stared at her.

"What?"

"Sorry to interrupt," she added, dutifully apologetic. "I just thought I should ask."

"If… I want to have sex with you again?"

"If you want to have sex with me again," she confirmed.

The answer he wanted to give was yes, Granger, I would like that, please and thank you, or something along those lines. Better yet, perhaps a clever callback to previous versions of them: Well, Granger, it's not a no.

But the answer he  _did_  give was, "Granger. What, pray tell, the fuck?"

She bristled. "What?"

"You brought me here to try to fix me up with Lily," he growled, "and  _now_ —"

"Well, you can wait until later," she assured him. "If you'd like to think it over."

"Jesus. You really think I need to think it over?"

Her brow furrowed. He wanted to dig a hole through the floorboards and bury himself in the ground.

"I," she began, and then frowned. "I don't know why you're so cross with me."

"I'm not, I'm just—" Maybe he was.

Maybe he was actually  _furious_  with her, or maybe he wasn't at all. Maybe he wanted to lie down beside her and feed her grapes. Frustratingly, there no longer seemed to be a distinction between sensations.

"Why," he managed to ask, sort of, before adding a few more words, stringing together an almost-complete thought. "Why do you want to have sex again?"

"Well, you're right that experimentally, I don't have an answer to why our compatibility keeps increasing, or when it might stop," she said, sounding contemplative. "I suppose I'd forgotten it was… of some scientific relevance."

"You want us to have sex again for… science?" he echoed, wondering whether to be dismayed or relieved.

"Sort of. Yes. Yes, actually," she decided, making up her mind on the subject. "Initially the idea of casual with no underlying purpose was too pointless to consider—"

"So true," he said morosely, because of course good sex was not reason enough to surmount pointlessness, and neither was inner turmoil.

"—but if there's a reason, then it makes sense." She raised her glass again, locking eyes with him. "Only if you want to. Actually, don't answer," she told him seriously, emptying her glass and setting it aside. "We'll play it your way," she mocked him, "and if it's meant to be, it'll just, you know,  _be_."

She slid one foot forward, brushing his beneath the table with the indication of knowing precisely where his had been some moments before, and helplessly, Draco thought about the way her lips parted when she came.

He was still thinking about it when they made it to the concert, Hermione putting on her badge and announcing herself to security as chief media correspondent for the  _Daily Prophet_  the same way she would inform someone she was right-handed or allergic to beets.

He was thinking about it when she was taking notes on the staging, unconsciously humming along to the songs she must have already known by now.

He was thinking about it when they went backstage and still-beautiful, still-ethereal Lily Moon said Draco, hi, how are you and he said I'm great actually, thanks for asking, and they smiled politely at each other and Hermione smiled and he thought about her mouth sighing in his ear.

And he was still thinking about it, moments later, when he caught her by the wrist and said, "Come home with me."

She blinked, startled. "Shouldn't we at least talk about… an agreement, or—?"

"Yes." His pulse quickened. "Later."

Then her lips parted, and for a single moment things just  _were_ , so she took his hand and she came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For CatPeach, because goodness, what an honor; TheImperfectionista, because your heart matters to me; AureliaBlack90, because it makes me happy to make you laugh. I am clearly feeling very soft. This chapter title comes from Clueless, a classic tale of step-siblings to lovers: "Oh my god, I am totally buggin'!"


	8. Whatever I Wanna Do, Gosh

**Chapter 8: Whatever I Wanna Do, Gosh**

_Two weeks later  
26 July 2002_

"I'm having a party for Harry's birthday next Saturday," Hermione remarked to him while unbuttoning his trousers, "and I suppose if you're not busy you should come."

In his defense, Draco did not say 'I had hoped to come approximately now, Granger, but that seems relatively impossible if matters of conversation continue as they are,' although he did think it rather intently.

"So the Boy Who Lived does precisely as he purports to do and continues living," Draco posed, with as much indignation as one could possibly summon whilst being rid of one's trousers, "and now I'm meant to celebrate his efforts as if it's some sort of inconceivable feat?"

"It  _is_  fairly inconceivable," Hermione reminded him unhelpfully, unsnapping her bra. She deposited it atop her dress, all her garments now sitting attentively in a neat pile beside her bed. "With every birthday Harry manages to have, the more convinced I become that we're all in the presence of a miracle."

"That," Draco informed her, tugging his shirt over his head, "is useful for matters of canonical sainthood, but not for purposes of me living my life unencumbered."

"I'm merely extending the invitation, Malfoy, not asking you to perform a celebratory burlesque," Hermione told him flatly, stretching her arms overhead and reminding him, by virtue of her unencumbered motion, that she was very naked. "Nobody's holding a gun to your head."

"You're manipulating me," Draco corrected her with a wave at her general existence, "sexually."

She slid him a doubtful sidelong glance. "Have I said I'll not sleep with you unless you attend?"

"It's certainly implied," he informed her. As a rule, he did not attend social events with women he was casually seeing, and birthday parties were at the top of the list, along with weddings. Funerals, too, but people were generally clever enough not to invite him to those; mostly because, as the times were, he was often at least partially at fault, in which case 'sorry for your loss' had a bit of a different ring to it. "Also," he added with a sudden wave of heat, "it's positively stifling in here."

"Your attendance is unrelated to sex, Malfoy, and global climate change is an unceasing pandemic. Come on," she said, tossing aside the duvet and giving him an impatient glance that was sufficiently beckoning, "and if it's so important to you, then pretend I never asked."

"Well that's not fair," he accused, getting into bed beside her. "The invitation's already been extended, hasn't it? You can't just retract it."

She sighed, reaching over to give his cock a few nimble strokes. "Shall I just obliviate you, then? Would that make you feel better?"

"Certainly not," he retorted, tossing onto his side and parting her legs with one hand. "Why on earth are you inviting me, anyway? It's not as if we run in the same social circles," he grumbled, stroking his thumb around the slit of her cunt.

Over the past several days, things had both changed and not changed. Among the changes had been the sexualization of their messages to each other, which meant this particular tryst was preceded by a fair amount of distant but still effective foreplay.  _Are you free tonight, Yes I suppose I could be why, I think I've got a bit of muscle strain from writing and I doubt masturbation will be as effective, Granger are you saying you want me to come over and arouse you to completion because you're too lazy to do it yourself, Malfoy it's not a matter of laziness it's a health concern, Well who am I to argue with health I suppose, That's what I thought so shall we do seven then, You rile me up and expect me to wait until seven Granger what happened to health how do you live with yourself, Fine let's do straight away after work and then shall we do dinner after I was thinking kabobs, You know me Granger I love a grilled meat, Hilarious Malfoy so do I._

"We don't have social circles," she replied, permitting him to nudge one knee up for the betterment of his reach. "I'm friends with everyone and you're friends with no one. Those aren't circles."

"Still, the point stands," he said, and then, "Can we switch? You know this isn't my dominant hand."

"Then I won't be using my dominant hand," she reminded him with a little swirl of her thumb over his tip, "and anyway, I was really just being polite."

"So you don't want me to come, then?"

"I do want you to come," she said, "hence my reluctance to switch hands."

"Not that," he growled, slipping two fingers into her as she gave a little whine. "Why invite me to a party in the first place if you didn't want me to attend? And there's probably a charm for making my left hand more effective," he postured aloud, noting privately that one of the more remarkable things that hadn't changed was how satisfyingly she fit around his fingers. He greatly looked forward to the penetrative portion of the evening.

And to dinner. He'd heard good things about the new place near Diagon.

"Of course there's a charm for it," Hermione assured him, quickening her pace. "So is that a no?"

"Yes," he groaned on a murmured exhale, and then, realizing he was expected to answer the question, managed more coherently, "What?"

"The party." Her lashes fluttered, eyes briefly falling shut, and for a moment her hand stilled around his cock, a foray to erotic distraction; all solid signs his performance was a rousing success. "Is it a yes or a no?"

"I—" He broke off, glancing around for his trousers. "I need my wand."

"For what?"

"I told you, I'm not left-handed."

"Oh, is that all? Malfoy, honestly," she said, launching herself upright and pushing him onto his back.

Among the more unfortunate constants between them? The 37% glowing from her wrist. There had been no motion in their compatibility since they had begun sleeping together regularly, though neither of them had been excessively concerned, or had at least not said as much aloud. He caught her glancing at his wrist when she clambered astride his hips, but the little crease in her brow that meant she was puzzling out possible explanations for their apparent plateau was only a flicker this time, hardly a breath of hesitation.

"Just give me a yes or a no," she said, sliding him inside her as they both briefly shuddered, "and then we can move on."

He sat up, drawing his lips to her chest. "I can't give you an answer until I know wh-" He broke off with another groan, tightening his hands on her hips. "What are you doing?"

"Hm? You've got access to both hands now, Malfoy, don't neglect my clitoris."

"You're doing something different with your hips," he observed, though he dutifully brought a hand down to ensure he was never neglectful.

"Oh yes, I'm spelling the word 'coconut' with them," she told him, moving with exaggerated deliberation for evidence. "How is it?"

"Good. Too good." He threw an arm around her waist and tossed her on her back, locking one of her legs around his waist. "So why do you want me to come?"

Her heel dug into the base of his spine. "Isn't it part of the agreement?"

"Not that." Rule number one of their arrangement: mutual orgasm. Usually not a problem, as the one time he'd finished first (in his defense, if she had wanted sex to last longer she shouldn't have pulled out all the stops so quickly) he had simply put his hands to good use. "The party, Granger. Why do you want me to come?"

"I don't  _want_ you to." She reached behind her for the headboard, using it for leverage to draw her hips skyward. He, an undisputed gentleman, was happy to assist, taking hold of her bum with his free hand and launching it aloft. "I just invited you," she panted, "because it felt like the polite thing to do."

"Well, if it's a matter of politeness, wouldn't it be equally rude to refuse?"

"Malfoy, I—harder, oh,  _there_ ," she moaned, applauding his adjustment. "I don't care if you come or not," she gasped, "I just…  _oh_ , yes, there!"

He leaned forward to catch her little whimper between his lips. "There?"

"Yes, there, and—come if you want to  _or don't_  I don't care  _oh my god_  yes yesyes oh god! Do whatever you want Malfoy oh yesyes likethatplease thankyou ohoh  _yes_ ," she said, biting down on his lip as she came with a pretty flutter around his cock. "I," she began, and closed her eyes for a moment, slowly un-clawing her nails from her back. "I just thought it'd be fun," she sighed, and because her lips were full and pink and tasted like peppermint, he kissed her.

Her tongue danced over his, motion returning from temporary catatonia now that her rapture had passed. "Fine," he muttered, or murmured, and they kissed a bit more, so maybe she hadn't heard him. He reached up to remove her hand from the headboard, lacing his fingers through hers. Not bad for his twenty-fifth time bringing her to orgasm, not that he was counting. He tugged at her curls with his free hand, satisfied with the motion of her ponytail coming loose. "I'll go, then," he said, and she returned him to his back, resuming her practice of scholarly gyration.

"Maybe I don't want you to come now that you've made such a fuss," she said. She dug her nails into his chest, head lolling to the side with aching satisfaction, and he growled his opposition.

"You're retracting the invitation?"

"Come for me," she gasp-whispered.

"Well, I don't know what to do with that," he told her, quietly despairing. "Do you want me to come or not?"

"I'm telling you to  _come_  for me, Malfoy. You can do whatever you'd like about the party." She had a rhythm now, and had reached behind her hips to stroke his thighs, along with everything else that lived between them. He was just on the verge of losing track of where her marvelously dexterous fingers had gone when she added, "I do think it would be nice if you came."

The words were quiet and soft and feminine and maddening and he had a feeling the two of them weren't done for the evening, so he did as she asked and he came. It was a bit of a spectacle, really, what with him wanting to do so quietly and instead launching up to take hold of her hair, tugging her down to him so he could more satisfyingly groan his tirade of frustrated euphoria to her mouth. She didn't seem displeased, and instead brushed his hair from his forehead while she kissed him back.

"I didn't spell anything that time," she said.

"Well, nobody's perfect." He reached up, toying with the hair that tumbled down around her shoulders. "Besides, you no longer have to convince me of your literacy. I've suspected it for a long time."

"Shut up." She kissed him again, letting him roll her onto her back for ease of disentanglement. "So you'll go?"

"Yes, fine. But I won't bring a gift."

"I'm sure you won't," she sniffed, obviously dubious of him coming empty-handed to any social function.

"Traditionally one brings a gift for the host," Draco attempted, searching for a loophole, which of course he was not going to find. Birthday parties were somewhat non-negotiable.

"You and I both know you'll acknowledge the celebrant," Hermione answered for him, reaching for a pair of knickers and searching for something else in her wardrobe. "Drat," she said aloud, frowning. "Left my robe in the laundry."

"It's just the bathroom," he said. "No need to dress for the occasion."

"Well, seeing as my options of running topless into Harry and apparating to my own toilet like a newly-licensed schoolgirl are so compelling," she drily replied, and Draco, finding the whole fuss unnecessary, tossed her his shirt. "Fine," she sighed, pulling it on and wrapping it tightly around her torso. "Be right back, then."

He pulled on his pants and waited for her return, which to her credit was perfunctorily swift. She slid back into the room, glancing contemplatively into nothing, before announcing, "When do you think we should revisit the terms of our arrangement?"

It was unfortunate he had so little time to enjoy the view of her, what with the hem of his shirt so spicily skirting the edge of her upper thigh. "What?"

"The terms," she said. "Mutual orgasm, equal division of locations for both parties' ease, veto rights to any additional sexual partners—"

"I'm familiar with the terms," he reminded her. "Which one were you thinking to revisit?"

Please, he thought, not the veto rights. Initially they had discussed the topic of exclusivity when constructing their sexual arrangement, but it was one of his personal rules not to agree to such things, finding that once a door had been closed the room became exceptionally stifling for one or both partners. That being said, she had made it clear she had sanitary concerns and he, meanwhile, was deeply selfish, just in terms of his primary characteristics. Privately, he had clung rather tightly to his contractual privilege to refuse, in the event she wanted to sleep with someone else in addition to him.

"The duration," she said.

He blinked. "What?"

"The duration," she repeated, slipping out of his shirt and shattering his conception of time and space while wandering unaffected in the direction of her own clothing. "This restaurant is casual, isn't it? Anyway," she continued, not waiting for an answer as she rifled through her wardrobe, "I suppose we didn't technically discuss how long we'd be sleeping together. Still, in terms of our original agreement, I… Well, no," she amended, reaching thoughtfully for a pair of jeans, "I suppose it would be the incepting parameters rather than the terms—"

"Granger," Draco said desperately, "allow me to formally request you use something more akin to human language, and, if possible, the Queen's English."

She turned to look at him, positively expressionless. "We started sleeping together to see how it would change our compatibility," she reminded him. "And we have our answer, don't we? That it hasn't increased or decreased."

"Did—" He broke off, frowning. "Did you not enjoy the sex we just had?"

"What? Don't be silly, Malfoy, I enjoyed it immensely. This really isn't a matter of your competence," she advised him with brusque impatience, as if he had barged into her room in some sort of savagely male fashion, waving around his masculine toxicity and shouting about the dominance of cocks. "I just think the experiment is… well," she sighed, selecting a casual button-down shirt and slipping it over her shoulders, "I suppose it may have run its course."

Briefly, his chest tightened.

"That," he managed, hoarsely referencing the bed that was probably still warm from their  _experiment_ , "was the sex you'd like to end on?"

"Hm? Oh, no, I suppose we should do it again for closure," she conceded, staring into space as she addressed the matter of her buttons. "What did you say the restaurant was called again?" she added vacantly. "I suppose we should call ahead, seeing as it might be busy."

"But," Draco began, and stopped. "But I thought you liked it."

"What? Malfoy, I told you, I've never been there—"

"The sex, Granger, the sex." Even to himself he sounded frazzled, possibly deranged. "You don't like it?"

"Of course I like it," she told him, sounding exasperated. "But that's not the point, is it?"

"Why isn't it the point?" It was possible he sounded like a child, or a madman. He wasn't entirely sure he wasn't both.

"Malfoy," she told him, turning sharply in his direction. "You know I'm not the guardian of your emotional needs, don't you?"

"What?" he asked, pleading desperately with the universe for clarification.

"We agreed to sex," she said slowly. "The proposition I made was exploratory sex, and that's what you said yes to. If you've come to rely on me for something else, then we need to revisit the terms of our arrangement."

Oh good, change. Draco  _loved_  change. He had positively  _adored_  it when Voldemort said hey Draco, kill Dumbledore, it'll be fun! Oh sure, everything will be different, specifically in that it will become intensely more disastrous, but it'll be a blast, I promise, no worries. He had been  _very into it_  when the Wizengamot said oh hey, fun new thing we're trying out, how about we put your father in prison until he dies, you'll love it! And of course he had also been  _extremely thrilled_  when McGonagall said ah yes, by the way, sorry to interrupt your perfectly acceptable life since I know you were getting comfortable with the idea of staying here forever in comfortable isolation but it turns out they've let you go, we're cutting you loose, you're going back into the world now, bye-bye.

"You can't change the terms," he blurted out, and her brow furrowed slightly. "You've just invited me to Potter's birthday party, haven't you?"

She frowned. "So?"

"So? Granger, we're not friends. If we don't have…  _this_ ," he reminded her, sweeping a listless hand around the room, "then what reason would there be for me to come?"

"Oh." She thought about it, tilting her head. "Well, I suppose—"

"And besides, there's Pansy's wedding," he said a few decibels too loudly, and she blinked, startled. "I was going to ask if you'd like to come with me to that."

"Really?" She seemed several degrees beyond doubtful. "That's… certainly a surprise, but Malfoy, I—"

"And if you think about it," he continued, his voice unfortunately still massively shrill, "two weeks is an abysmal length of time for any social experiment. You can't just chuck the whole thing in the bins and quit," he said, tossing it at her like an accusation, and to his surprise, she appeared genuinely disturbed.

"It… is a rather limited time frame," she acknowledged quietly.

"Yes," he heartily confirmed, unsure where he was going with that, but also very confident he was well on his way to wherever it was. "Maybe we need to…" Balls. Hogwarts did not have a very solid course on scientific experimentation, much less on science. And really, the entire last year had been a wash, what with all the torture and the considerable lack of academia. "Maybe we need to change another variable," he determined, deciding that sounded mildly persuasive.

He could see, based on her intensifying expression, that he'd been right.

"Another variable?"

"Yes." Sure, fine, whatever. "We've never spent time with other people in our lives before," he reminded her. "Maybe that would change things?"

"Well, that's certainly a possibility." She thought about it. "But we couldn't change two variables at a time, so—"

"So the sex would have to continue," he firmly agreed. "Or else the whole experiment would be tainted."

"Oh." She perched on the edge of her bed, pulling on one shoe. "Well, then that's fine."

He watched her tie the shoe with her usual meticulous attention, reaching for the other when she finished with the first. She started humming a little to herself, one of Lily Moon's songs, and he realized that was really it for her. She had been successfully convinced by his insane, excessively emotional appeal to her unerring sense of logic, and that was that.

The 37% glowed from her wrist as she looked up, tucking her hair behind one ear.

"Ready?" she asked, rising to her feet, and the past two weeks came back to him in a rush.

The letters, the dinners, the breakfasts, the morning cups of coffee, the nights falling asleep with her in his arms only to wake up to her wildly crossing out words, nudging him to consciousness and demanding his thoughts on prepositions. She never stopped, not ever, unless he pulled her into his arms, and then maybe she would pause for a while, just for a few minutes. All because an evening under the influence of whisky and the high of good sex she had promised to bring him to orgasm if he did the same for her, and she kept the promises she made.

He was no longer beholden to nothing. For once in his life there was someone who expected to hear how he was doing, where he was spending his time, what he was doing with it. At any given moment he could be found within some invisible orbit of her existence, tied to her even after they'd firmly agreed that he wasn't. He had expected to hate it.

He did not.

"Malfoy?" she prompted, and he blinked, realizing he'd been staring.

"You could probably call me by my name," he said. "Given the circumstances."

"That's changing two variables," she replied, unfazed.

For the briefest instant, he felt part of himself come loose and drop to his knees in front of her, telling her he could probably fall in love with her if she wanted, if she felt like it, if she asked.

But that was too many variables, so instead he said, "You're right, Granger, I'm being stupid," and followed her out the door.

* * *

Over the three weeks prior to Harry Potter's twenty-second birthday party, Hermione had received three forms of correspondence from one Molly Weasley. The first, which was received shortly after the publication of her article about Lily Moon and Bastien Queensbury, contained the following message:

_HOW DARE YOU IMPLY THAT MY SON'S INVENTION IS THE SOURCE OF LILY MOON'S RELATIONSHIP PROBLEMS! JUST BECAUSE THAT PRISSY TART THINKS SHE'S TOO GOOD FOR THAT POOR BOY BASTIEN QUEENSBURY DOES NOT MEAN EVERYTHING IS A FEMINIST ISSUE! YOU KNOW ARTHUR IS A GOOD MAN! I RAISED SIX GOOD MEN, ONE OF WHOM YOU HAVE ALREADY DESTROYED FOR YOUR OWN SELFISH PLEASURE! JUST BECAUSE YOU'RE ALONE DOES NOT MEAN YOU HAVE TO TAKE IT OUT ON OTHERS! YOU'LL NEVER FIND SOMEONE IF YOU REMAIN SO BITTER. I'M TELLING YOU THIS FOR YOUR OWN GOOD!_

A week later:

_A LAWSUIT! DON'T YOU SEE WHAT YOU'VE DONE! BECAUSE OF YOU THAT POOR BROKEN-HEARTED BASTIEN QUEENSBURY IS SUING MY GEORGE! IS THERE NO END TO YOUR VENDETTA AGAINST MEN! NO MATTER HOW MANY BRAS YOU BURN HERMIONE DEAR IT WILL NEVER MAKE YOU HAPPY!_

And then, finally:

_Hermione, so pleased to hear you'll be attending Percy's wedding. It's been such a long time since we've seen you, and I do hope you can find it within yourself to face us, CONSIDERING YOU HAVE THE GALL TO ATTEND ONE OF OUR FAMILY EVENTS WITH THAT AWFUL MALFOY BOY OF ALL PEOPLE WHOM YOU KNOW RONALD DESPISES! IF THIS IS YOUR IDEA OF REVENGE THEN MY DEAR YOU HAVE QUITE ANOTHER THING COMING! I HOPE YOU INTEND TO BRING AN EXTRAORDINARY GIFT!_

"Well," Harry said, having no choice but to hear the contents of the owls, "that is… promising. What's she upset about, exactly?"

"Oh, it's just a ridiculous PR tactic Bastien's cooked up," Hermione lamented as she swept around the house, making sure it looked presentable for the party. "He's suing George over the  _Meant 4 Me_  charm, because according to him he wouldn't have harassed Lily or tried to bully her into loving him if he hadn't been led to believe their compatibility was proof they belonged together."

"Huh," Harry said, which Hermione took to mean  _huh, that's pretty stupid, but I don't necessarily want to spend a lot of words on why._

"Yes," Hermione agreed, "I know."

"Have you talked to George about it?"

"Yes, of course," Hermione said. "He says it's fine and that the whole thing is essentially free publicity. But," she sighed, "that's assuming he doesn't lose the lawsuit and get his entire business put on the block."

"Maybe he should hire Nott as a lawyer," Harry grumbled. "He did get Pansy Parkinson her entire fortune somehow."

"Well, Nott is a very niche, highly macabre flavor of genius," Hermione agreed, sharing a grimace with Harry before adding, "I didn't invite him to the party, by the way."

"You may as well have," Harry said, "seeing as otherwise, dragging me from my birthday party would be his prime motivation for getting through the day."

"Would you like me to ask Malfoy to bring him?" she asked, and Harry sighed loudly.

"Why, so he can ruin my birthday party with his presence?" was Harry's response, despite the fact that he had not wanted a birthday party and generally loathed being the center of attention in general. Naturally Hermione had insisted, because as far as social customs went, birthdays—which she had informed Harry countless times—were never truly about the wishes of the celebrant, but more importantly about their  _friends_.

"What's that about Malfoy?" came a voice behind Hermione, revealing that Padma and Ron had arrived early with the cake. "My goodness, things are getting serious between you," Padma observed, passing the dish off to a near-toppling Kreacher and giving Ron a hard nudge with her elbow, ridding him of his ghastly scowl. "Are things official now?" she asked Hermione, having successfully prodded Ron to a subtler expression of repulsion.

"Oh, no, still casual," Hermione assured her, as Ron silently mimicked a gag to Harry, who wasn't paying attention.

"What do you think he could be doing?" Harry asked, seemingly of no one. "I feel like I should check all the doors and windows just in case he decides to violently escalate."

"Is this about," Padma began, and frowned. "Never mind, I have no idea what this is about. Ron," she added, nudging him again, "give Hermione the bottle we brought."

"I'm going to need to open it immediately," he told Hermione, flicking the seal on the bottle of Ogden's in his hand, "seeing how Malfoy's going to be here."

"Ron," Hermione sighed with measured sensitivity, having not forgotten that his dislike of Draco was very often on her behalf (see also: The Slug Vomit Crusade of Righteousness, 1992). "I understand you've never cared for him, but we're supposedly adults now. And while we're at it," she added, "please call off your mother. Her last howler woke Harry from a nap." That, Hermione thought, would be enough to make her reconsider. The only distinction between Harry and Molly Weasley's sons was that she loved him more than at least three of them. Possibly four.

"Oh, I got an earful from her too," Padma said with a roll of her eyes. "Something about you being hell bent on the destruction of society?"

"Honestly, who has the time," Hermione said with palpable exhaustion, as Padma gave a sympathetic nod. "Anyway, Ron," Hermione continued, turning back to him as he cracked the Ogden's seal and took a sip directly from the bottle, "it's not as if this is the worst thing that could have happened. You can write it into your comedy set," she assured him, "and besides, it's not like Malfoy and I are getting married. We're just, you know." She shrugged. "Having sex."

Ron, however, did not seem to be soothed by this clarification, opting instead to tilt his head back to accommodate an unhealthily large swallow of firewhisky.

"Ignore him," Padma advised, patting Ron's shoulder. "He has his limitations."

Ron said something like, "I'm just a human man," or some other somesuch, though it was difficult to hear through the mouthful of whisky and besides, someone else had just walked through the Floo, catching Hermione's attention.

"Oh, you're here," she said, spotting Draco from afar, and he inclined his head with his usual ambivalent sense of having other places to be.

"I said I would be, wouldn't I? This is for you," he said, handing her a bottle of 1989 Bordeaux, "because I assumed nothing else in this house was potable."

"Certainly not for you," Hermione said. "At least half the people here would gladly poison you at any moment."

"Well, I've had a comfortable life," Draco said neutrally, turning to Padma. "Patil."

"Malfoy," she replied, giving Hermione an unreadable look of amusement. "Been quite a long time, hasn't it?"

"Long enough that we've all forgotten everything, I'm sure," he replied in his usual tone of dismissal, skipping a still-drinking Ron in his greetings and turning, somewhat unwillingly, to Harry. "You managed to take the day off, then?"

"Nott's not plotting anything, is he?" was Harry's very measured and not at all frantic response.

"Actually," Draco said, "I believe he mentioned something about being too busy to attend, as he is currently contemplating a run for Minister."

Immediately, Harry's face paled. "What?"

"Something about campaign financing," Draco said with a rueful shrug. "Either that or collusion."

"You realize that if Nott runs for Minister of Magic he'll win," Harry said fretfully, and Hermione sighed.

"Harry, I really don't th-"

"I do realize this, yes," Draco confirmed, "though, candidly, I only stand to benefit from his appointment to a position of power, so as you might imagine I did not find it a fruitful use of my time to try and stop him."

"Well, this is terrible news," Harry announced, looking positively ghoulish. "Something will have to be done about it."

"Harry," Hermione said, hastily reaching out to rein him in. "I'm not sure h-"

"Yes, something must be done immediately, I expect," Draco said. "By the way, do you have a glass? Oh, thank you," he said, glancing askance to see Kreacher standing on tiptoe to offer him one. "Excellent, and here I thought I'd have to do my own fetching."

"Kreacher, you don't have t-" No use. "Harry, where are you go-" Already gone. "Balls," Hermione said, realizing that not only had her house elf apparently put together an individualized plate of canapés they weren't even serving just for Draco's personal consumption, Harry had launched himself in the direction of the Floo, apparently intending to save the wizarding world from a chaotic despot once again before the rest of his guests even arrived.

"Well," she said, turning to Draco with a scowl, "what was that?"

"That," Draco said, taking a sip of wine, "was Potter's birthday gift, which you assured me I had to bring. This is a very good pairing," he added, turning formally to Kreacher. "I can only assume your talents here are thoroughly wasted."

"Please don't poach Harry's house elf," Hermione said, before frowning with confusion. "Wait, does that mean Nott's not actually running for Minister?"

"To be honest, I wouldn't rule it out," Draco said. "But Potter looked bored to tears, and—" A shrug. "Really, it's better we all get pre-emptive."

She wanted very badly to be irritated with him, or at least some base level of annoyed. Usually those emotions were very accessible to her, but instead she had the strangest sensation what he'd just done was actually quite funny, and anyway she was happy to see him, even if it meant Ron still hadn't put down the bottle he clearly wasn't going to share.

"Well, fine," she said, suddenly feeling as if she had chosen the wrong dress. Not that her dress mattered; she just suddenly wished she'd chosen a different one. Or maybe it was the shoes. Something felt strangely ill-fitting. "Though I don't see how we're supposed to have a party if the guest of honor isn't even here," she told him primly.

"Granger," Draco said, raising his glass to his lips again, "I really don't care." He took a sip, giving her the sort of look that suggested he'd looked closely before, and then finished, "I'm not here for anyone else."

Suddenly, she felt her cheeks grow intensely, uncomfortably warm.

"Well, we should go say hello to people," Padma said loudly, taking Ron's arm and dragging him away over the sound of his sputtered protestations, most of which seemed to involve 'what people' and 'why' and 'did he really just say that or did I black out for a second' before Hermione and Draco were left to face each other alone, momentarily uncertain.

"Well," Draco said. "As far as first times in mixed company go, I'd say that went well."

"You look nice," Hermione said. "Handsome. You look," she attempted, and then paused, articulating the details of him to herself in her head.

There was the usual perfect degree of gaping from his collar to the first button; the little hint of clavicle that was never too formal nor too undone. Then the crisp grey of his eyes, which always slid around with taunting deliberation. Also, the particular way he stood. His posture was so strangely appealing; not Harry's slump of distracted inattention or Ron's gangling, but just a little lean to the side. A little sidelong thrust of his hips, like the accent mark over the French word for something unapologetically expensive. The glass in his hand looked like a prop of some sort, as if he'd practiced a thousand ways to hold it and discovered just the one shortly before he'd arrived there, only she'd seen him hold a glass before. He'd had it figured out for quite some time. He knew how to do things. He always seemed to look like he belonged.

"Cool," she finished eventually. "You always look so cool."

Immediately, she felt silly and wished she'd said nothing.

He, however, merely seemed surprised, his glass pausing halfway between being held loosely in his hand and being sipped, and then he gave her a long, semi-indulgent glance.

"Thank you," he said. "You look beautiful." He raised the glass further, then paused again. "I like the dress," he added.

"You can take it off later," she said. "If you want."

It was meant to be factual, not lascivious, but by the twitch of his mouth, she suspected he found it rather coy.

"I'm sure we can put it to good use," he assured her.

He made good on his offer less than an hour later. By then Hermione would not be informed that Harry had returned to the party, or that Hagrid's occamy threw up on the carpet, or that Lily Moon had arrived, because instead she was locked in the library with Draco, straddling his jaw on the floor until she came with the fabric of her dress clutched in both hands.

* * *

The days between Harry's birthday party and Pansy's wedding were especially pleasant, at least for Draco. Theo seemed a bit preoccupied, still intent on doing crime in secret, and Pansy was obviously busy planning her celebration of lifelong monogamy, which meant Draco was spending most of his free time with Hermione. The majority of their time together was still sexual in nature, but she seemed to have grown accustomed to having him within reach. Whereas before, he had felt like he'd been trespassing on her private mental space, she now seemed perfectly comfortable transitioning from the inside of her head to conversing with him aloud. It made the days a bit better, even if nothing had technically changed. It was less like life had been before, with each day bleeding senselessly into the next; just a numbing mix of magical maladies pouring into gaping, sleepless nights.

"Why don't you sleep?" Hermione asked him, though it was a bit of a silly question, as he slept mostly fine when she was there. Sometimes as a result of post-coital hormones, and other times purely from physical exertion.

"I don't have a reason to," he said.

"Besides regeneration?" she asked skeptically.

"You don't sleep much either," he pointed out, and she shrugged.

"I have things to do. I like to keep busy."

"Why, because if you stop everything else will stop, too?" he said, half-joking, only she looked mildly traumatized.

"I," she began, and paused. "I think maybe yes," she said in a very small and panicked voice, and he slid an arm around her shoulders, tugging her closer. More for containment than affection, lest her more destructive thoughts come loose and try to flee. Despite the fact that comforting others was typically something he avoided, he leaned his cheek against her head, toying absently with her curls.

"We're all coping with something," he said. "At least you're doing some good."

"Am I?" She sounded doubtful. "Sometimes I'm not convinced."

He sighed. "Is this about the lawsuit again?"

"Well, it's still my fault, isn't it? So I can hardly just forget about it." She leaned back to glance up at him. "If not for my article, Bastien wouldn't have had a reason to publicly blame George."

"The lawsuit is a total stretch," Draco reminded her, finding the whole thing to be the height of annoyance. "The charm didn't make Bastien act like an arse. He just  _is_  one, regardless of the charm's existence."

"I know, but if he wins the lawsuit, that's a lot of money." She chewed her lip, uneasy. "And it's my fault."

"Don't be ridiculous," Draco said impatiently, "it isn't your fault."

"Yes, it is," she said, consistently adamant whenever the opportunity for self-blame arose. "I made him look like the bad guy, so of course he has no choice but to pin it on someone else."

"He has plenty of choices," Draco said. "The one he picked was predictable, given that he is an undisputed arse, but he certainly had other options."

"Still. Do you think he's right that we'd be better off without the charm?" she asked, twisting around to look at him. "Other people have said things, you know. Dauntless wants me to cover it for an article; it's the biggest one he's asked me to write so far." She seemed to be uncomfortable with the prospect. "Obviously I think it's interesting," she conceded, always quickest to argue with herself, "and clearly, I stand by the charm's importance. But relationships  _have_  been ruined, and people  _have_  made choices they wouldn't otherwise—"

"It's hysterical, isn't it, that before the charm we had all this uncertainty," Draco cut in, apparently seeing the irony she couldn't. "Terror of the unknown. Should we or shouldn't we? How do we know we've found the one? Before George Weasley, people were waiting for signs, making lists, trying to know the unknowable." He gave an irritated sigh, tugging a little at her curls. "And now we have perfect certainty," he grumped in lamentation, "and it hasn't made anyone any cleverer at all."

She gave him a look of surprise. "I didn't expect you to be in favor of the charm."

"I didn't say I was," he told her.

"Then why—"

"I'm just saying it's not the charm's fault if people are unhappy," he clarified. "Weasley specifically never claimed he could make people happy."

"I—" She stopped. "That's really quite a spectacular legal defense, Malfoy."

"I'm not totally inept," he said, pleased she'd finally noticed. "And anyway, Bastien's argument is perfectly transparent, so Weasley should have no trouble disputing it. It just happens to be a high profile case, that's all."

"I suppose," Hermione sighed. "In any case, it's good Harry and Lily met at his party," she added as an afterthought. "I suppose he's the only person she could even try to date right now with enough star power to match Bastien's."

"It's a clever play," Draco agreed, "if she can stomach it."

Hermione rolled her eyes, smacking her palm into his chest. He kissed her, she kissed him back, things progressed. It seemed everything was progressing except for the number on their wrists, which remained the same. No matter how excellent the sex was, their compatibility remained immovable on the subject. Orgasm if you must, the 37% told him stoically, but don't expect it to make a difference to me. He learned, a little more each day, to simply ignore its existence.

Historically speaking, numbness and denial came easily to him.

By the time the wedding rolled around, Draco was in a good place; emotionally, psychologically, hair-wise. He was hydrated and in pleasant spirits. He no longer felt concerned that a person he'd seen naked several times was now marrying a man she met five minutes ago. Some things, he reasoned with renewed certainty, just were. Someone very wise who most definitely knew what they were talking about had said that.

Hermione wore a red dress. For fun, and because he thought it would make her smile, and also because it did not scream 'I retain my wealth despite my brief flirtation with genocide,' Draco brought her a single red rose. She smiled, as predicted, and nearly kissed him. The wedding was in the gardens of Pansy's manor house, which had been transformed with twinkling lights and excruciatingly well-chosen glassware. It was tasteful, expensive but not tawdry or ostentatious; precisely the wedding of an heiress who was also fiscally responsible. Theo had been forbidden from making any speeches. Everything was precisely as it should have been.

"It was a mad thing I did, falling in love with you," Percy Weasley told his new bride in their vows. "I'll never understand it. I planned everything, every step of my life, every moment of it. I had lists, projections, goals. Then I met you, and it was like discovering I'd been colorblind the whole time. As if, all that time," he said, with all the reverence of a man heedlessly in love, "I thought I was seeing things one way, but then I saw you, and I realized I'd never seen anything at all."

If Draco had known what would happen with the rest of his evening, perhaps he might have seen things in a different light. Maybe he would have noticed the storm clouds coming in overhead, thinking to bring an umbrella. Maybe he would have noticed Hermione's discomfort when they were seated at a table with Ron and Padma, Bill and Fleur, with George and Harry and Lily, and somewhere, though he didn't really care where, Astoria was with her ninety-something percent perfect fiancé. Maybe he would have counted Hermione Granger's smiles and discovered only the one, the first one, and thought: maybe something is wrong, and maybe I've said something I shouldn't, or maybe neglected to say something I should.

But he didn't, and he hadn't.

And until it started raining, he hadn't even noticed anything was wrong.

* * *

It started here: "What's your compatibility?"

An innocent question. Guileless.

Everything before that had been relatively fine, or as fine as things could be while the woman who might have ended up your mother-in-law observed you as if she hoped you might trip and fall at any moment. And as fine as things could be while attending the wedding of someone you once went on a date with (who was also the brother of your ex) and, of course, Pansy Parkinson, who was gracious enough, considering she took one look at Hermione and Draco and laughed for an entire minute straight, nearly requiring being cut out of her wedding dress when she forewent her ability to breathe.

"This," she said, carefully removing moisture from the corner of her eye in that particular way that girls with natural cosmetic instincts could manage not to smudge their extremely precise liner, "is bewildering in just… the best,  _maddest_  possible way. Just… truly, truly strange."

"Pans, I hardly think anything compares to the relationship we're here to allegedly support," Draco told her, apparently not finding this to be a bothersome comment at all. "Is there something so unusual about Granger and me being here together?"

"Yes," Pansy said bluntly. "I'm starting to think people took 'Sunday dress' to mean 'come with the most unlikely person you can find,' but of course what reason would I possibly have for thinking that about you two?" She arched a dark brow, mean in the way only Pansy could be mean. "I'm sure you have loads in common."

"Like, for example, the obvious fact that neither of us can parse this out," Draco agreed, waving a hand in reference to the wedding with generous, unspecified ceremony. "So really, this is just a lot of the pot calling the kettle fat, isn't it?"

"Black," Hermione murmured, and Draco glanced at her.

"Granger," he said in a very serious tone. "I think we both know I'm not wrong."

Percy's reaction, when he wasn't fending off his teary mother, was relatively similar, though of course not at all. "I hadn't imagined you'd go for Malfoy," he told her, frowning to himself in thought. "Of course, he'll get a Ministry pension so it's not all bad, but he's not really the career type, is he?"

"You're saying you didn't think Malfoy is… achieving enough?" Hermione asked, and Percy gave a small laugh of discomfort.

"I suppose I simply thought of you as the ambitious sort," Percy said, amending quickly, "You know, for a Gryffindor, so excluding any nepotism or subterfuge. Initially I had my doubts because, of course, Ronald," he said, sharing a conspiratorial glance with her that, indeed, explained everything without further comment, "but then he turned out to be quite the success in the Auror department, didn't he? And, well, not that it's  _so_  unheard of, opposites attracting and all that, but—" He broke off, giving her the sort of glance suggesting he had noticed an invisible speck of lint somewhere on her dress, or perhaps on her general personality.

"Surprising," was his ultimate word of choice, which to Hermione sounded a lot like 'stupid.'

Not that she cared what other people thought about her being there with Draco. It was more along the lines of  _herself_  not fully knowing what she was doing there with Draco, and the additional choruses of confusion were not exactly helpful.

"So, you're dating," Harry had said that morning, to which Hermione replied dutifully no, there was no dating, dating involved dates and dates implied that both parties had agreed to some form of dating. "So, then you're…"

"Having sex," she said, "until the experiment concludes."

Harry, who always took a bit of time to process these things (see also: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, 1991-1997), made a face indicating he was still grappling with this information, so Hermione waited her usual margin of twenty to thirty allotted seconds of squinty confusion. "And what concludes the experiment?"

"Well, a quantifiable result, I expect," she said, adding, "Otherwise, an object set in motion—"

"Stays in motion until acted upon by an external force, I know," Harry supplied, having heard it enough, "but in this case, what sort of thing would be the external force?"

"Oh." She paused. "Well, one of us changing our minds, I suppose."

"Wanting more?" Harry guessed.

"That's one outcome," she agreed.

"Wanting… less?"

"Also an outcome, yes." Briefly, she considered congratulating him. Sometimes he struggled much more with these sorts of concepts. (See also: Tied for First in Matters of Emotional Range; to wit, One Single Teaspoon, 1995.)

"Well, if you're sure," had been Harry's response, which was technically the worst possible response, because Hermione was  _not_ sure, and also, because surety was mostly Harry's arena. Harry Potter trafficked in certainty above all things. He  _knew_  things, in his bones, the way other people did not. It was what people mostly despised about him, if they were going to despise anything. With Hermione it was oh, she's annoying, she's a snotty know-it-all, but she had never really known anything the way Harry knew things. He knew things like a rope to an anchor. She knew them like a microbiologist counting algae, cataloguing their motions to a degree so precise that few other people could be counted on to notice.

And Harry did not sound sure about her and Draco.

Again, this wouldn't have been a problem, as she and Harry had certainly disagreed before on matters equally crucial (see also: Women Can Be Criminals Too, 1996-1997), but there was something a little unsettling about Hermione's private lack of evidence. It was one thing to combat Harry's argument with her own much stronger counterpoint ('I Can Just Tell It's a Bloke' is Not a Valid Argument, a subset of Women Can Be Criminals Too, 1996-1997) and another to be left entirely empty-handed.

Harry did not think she and Draco would last. The number on her wrist did not disagree.

What, then, was possibly her reason for argument?

"Well, this has been a trying time," George announced, sidling up to her at the bar in his usual violet overcoat while she'd been pondering the universe and its logicless anarchy. "I'm going to need several days and multiple sources of illegality to cope with it, I think."

Hermione winced. "The lawsuit, you mean?"

Or worse, the article Dauntless had assured her she would have to write to the  _Daily Prophet_ 's expectations, unless of course she preferred the sweet freedom of unemployment in addition to the permanent stain on her journalistic reputation, in which case she could kiss the Order of Merlin goodbye as it waltzed grandly out the door.

"What? Granger, good god, no," George said, turning to her with a speckled look of scoffery. "You've met me, haven't you? Frankly, I'm disappointed it's taken so long for someone to sue me as it is. Do you know how many lives I've knowingly  _and_  recklessly endangered? Actually, don't answer," he said hastily, "I'd hate to watch you do the maths—"

"Then what?" she prompted, sighing, because she'd already estimated the number to be somewhere south of fifty and north of a baker's dozen, and he shrugged.

"I'm the best man at my weirdest brother's wedding," he reminded her. "Which, by the way, I think he did mostly because it would befuddle our mother, which is unfortunately very clever of him. I'd so hoped he'd never develop a sense of humor," he lamented, "because then what would I possibly bring to the table? Being a middle child," he concluded with a mournful huff, "is an abominable curse."

"I—" It seemed unfathomable that of all the things to be concerned about, Percy having managed an obscure joke was the primary one. "George," Hermione said gently, hoping not to startle him with a return to reality, "you're on the verge of bankruptcy."

"That's true," he said giddily. "He certainly can't claim anything close to financial ruin. Look at him," he said, twisting around to glance at where Percy was smiling the particularly blank smile of someone either madly in love or deeply Stockholm Syndromed. "He's got a stable job! He married rich! What a right proper citizen he is, I bet he even votes. You're right," George concluded, turning to her with a wink, "I've absolutely nothing to worry about."

"George," Hermione sighed. "You should really vote."

"You know," George said loudly, venturing an abrupt tangent, "during my deposition, a lot of people asked me why I designed this enchantment." He gave her a peering, searching glance. "Why didn't you ever ask me why?"

"What?"

"You asked me about eight thousand questions," George reminded her, "but you never asked me the one thing that everyone else now asks me on a daily basis:  _why_." He gave her another speculative look of triumph, as if he'd uncovered some massive ruby and was about to present it to the British Museum, at which point everyone involved would pretend archaeology was more advanced than simply thievery with shovels.

"Why?" Hermione echoed, bewildered. "But isn't it obvious?"

"Is it?"

"Well, yes," she said, frowning. "Certainty." That was the word Draco had used:  _Now we have perfect certainty._  "Isn't that the obvious reason?"

"Funnily enough, some people," George said, conjuring a rather absurd-looking straw, "seem to think that's not a sufficient explanation. That in fact," he continued, taking a long, indulgent slurp, "I must have had some personal motivation. Say, maybe the fact that my brother once had a girlfriend I rather liked," he hypothesized, "but she was clever and I was funny, and to clever girls those are two very different things, so perhaps one day in an effort to prove to her I was more than she suspected, I created an enchantment that would not only disrupt the social practices of an entire civilization, but would also make me into the sort of misanthropic villain people could hate more than Voldemort."

Hermione blinked, and George took another long slurp, adding, "But of course it backfired, because it turns out she's only 47% compatible with me, so it was never about being too clever at all. Hypothetically speaking," he added as an afterthought, and then turned away, glancing out over the crowd with something that, if Hermione hadn't known better, she might have called wistful melancholy.

"George," she said, taking another gentle tone but with a much firmer implication, "we're 43% compatible."

He seemed abruptly and viscerally startled. "Good god, did you think I meant you? No, Granger," he said with a shudder, "I was talking about Penelope Clearwater. You, I think, I'd murder with a ice pick. But tenderly," he assured her, "and with an appropriate period of grieving."

The idea that George Weasley, who had never once done anything reasonable in his life, had invented something to win over a girl and then ultimately discarded the whole thing on the basis of his own invention, lodged itself in Hermione's brain and would not let go. By the time she was sitting, unsettled, next to Draco while George gave his toast—"I am responsible for this," he proclaimed, adding, "You're welcome. End of speech."—she still hadn't quite recovered from the idea that she was not only the dumbest person at the wedding, but perhaps the dumbest person in the world.

_Now we have perfect certainty._

"Where's Nott?" Harry asked Draco, with the usual urgency of someone who feared they'd be accosted with nuclear war at any moment, and Draco ignored him.

"I'll tell you one thing, Pansy's taste in linens is total hogwash," Draco said in Hermione's ear, startling her back to the moment. "What is this, ecru? I suppose next we'll have some quidditch at the racetrack. Sport of kings my arse."

Hermione had absolutely no idea what he was talking about, and worse, Fleur, who was happily enfolded in Bill's arms, was leaning over to ask them something. Bad enough that Ron and Padma were finishing each other's sentences and adoringly swapping plates (he hated olives and loved mushrooms, she hated mushrooms and loved olives), Harry and Lily were delightedly chatting as if they hadn't met just last week. Even George was smugly congratulating himself on the invention which all but guaranteed his brother's eternal happiness, even if it had detracted from his own.

If someone were to have asked, Hermione doubted she could have explained what happened inside her head. Nothing was  _wrong_ , exactly, but with everything compounding all at once, she might have just… broken a little bit.

"I'm absolutely dying to know," Fleur said at precisely the wrong moment. "The two of you being old rivals and all that, pardon my curiosity, but—"

Then it happened.

"What's your compatibility?"

"It's ninety percent," Draco said, at precisely the same time Hermione said, "Oh, it's not like that, we're not together."

Briefly, they exchanged a startled glance.

"Oh, that's just lovely," Fleur sighed, ethereally pleased, probably because she had been closer to Draco and had only heard his answer. "It's so wonderful when life surprises you like that."

"Will you excuse me?" Hermione said, rising to her feet and quickly looking away when Padma shot her a slightly furrowed glance of concern. "I have to use the bathroom. You know where it is," she added pointedly to Draco, "don't you?"

His jaw clenched warily but he nodded, making his excuses and guiding her, not quite touching but almost, through the meandering acres of manor house garden.

Eventually he spoke, tucking his hand safely into his jacket pocket. "I'm going to guess this isn't some sort of furtive liaison, then, is it?"

"You lied." She glanced at him sideways. "You  _lied_."

"Ah." He looked uncomfortable, glancing over his shoulder just before they reached Pansy's house. "Come on, then."

He led her a little ways from the reception, tucking them out of sight behind a series of rose bushes. "Listen," he said, watching her as she paced. "I didn't mean to upset you, I just thought—"

"Do I embarrass you?"

"What?" He blinked. "No. Why would you ask me that?"

It seemed exceedingly obvious to her. "Because you invented a number to justify why we were here together."

"No, I didn't—no." He seemed bewildered, a bit stunned. "That's… no, that's not what I did."

"Then what did you do?" she demanded. "Because last I checked, 37% was a far cry from ninety!"

"I," he began, and hesitated. "It's not that."

"Then what is it?"

"Well, you… you said we weren't together at all," he informed her, changing the subject entirely, and she scowled.

"We aren't!"

"Oh," he scoffed, "so we're just having meaningless sex, then?"

"Aren't we?" She flung it at him. "You wanted casual. I said yes to casual. I did not say yes to falsely telling people we're meant for each other just to soothe your ego."

"My ego?" he snapped. " _You're_  the one who can't stand the idea of being with someone who isn't perfect!"

"I have  _never_ ," she hissed, "asked you to be perfect. I've asked nothing of you, ever, and you've asked nothing from me. So what's the point in lying?"

"Don't." His voice was hard and sharp. "Don't act like I betrayed you, like I hurt you. We're not children anymore. You can't act like I've bullied you when I haven't." His jaw tightened. "And don't act like that number doesn't matter to you, either, because we both know it does."

"I still don't want to  _lie_  to people, Malfoy. What we're doing doesn't concern them."

"So I should have done what you did, then? Denied we were anything at all?"

She could see he was angry, possibly hurt. His grey eyes flashed, and he didn't look cool at all. He looked flustered and confused. What she wanted to say was Draco, I didn't deny us, or maybe I did, but if I did it's only because I don't think you actually want me, at least not all of me. I think you just want parts of me, the good parts, and I'll have to save the ugly parts for someone else. Someone who won't run, who has a vested interest in staying. Someone whose wrist says  _you were right, you two belong together_  instead of  _look around, wake up, it's not this_. It might be something, but it's not this.

She wanted to tell him Draco Malfoy, I wouldn't be here with you now if not for this charm, if not for the strangeness of knowing that you and I are something rare, and maybe we're not the right kind of rarity or the usual kind or even the  _good_  kind, and so it's easier to call it nothing than to say that I don't know what is. Draco, I don't understand what I'm doing, because for the first time in my life I am not making logical choices, and if I'm being honest then I think it's going to break my heart, and my heart is not as strong as you think.

But she didn't have the right words for that.

"Yes," she said. "You should have said we were nothing, because we are."

His mouth tightened a little, got that mean twist to it that she remembered. She understood he probably did this when he was angry. He lashed out when he was hurt. He wanted to be touched but couldn't be, not without shoving others away. Someday a woman would have a higher number on her wrist and she would fix him, mend him, set him on his feet and he would thank her for it, value her more because he was whole now, for the first time, for once. She would be able to give him the things Hermione could not.

That was the point of the charm. He had said so himself. Removing the uncertainty, the fear of the unknown. They already knew they were imperfect creatures, damaged and stupid, and yes, life was chaos, but that didn't mean letting chaos win. She was the brightest witch of her age. She could save them both from each other; save them from themselves.

"This could get ugly," she told him. "You have a temper and so do I. We were enemies before and we could be enemies again. Right now we're nothing, we're on neutral ground."

She paused, and then said, "But we could be something better."

He said nothing.

"Isn't it better if we call it now?" she implored him. "We could be friends. We have this pretty little thing, this beautiful, lovely thing, and if we stop now it won't get corrupted. It won't break, it'll just… change shape." She inhaled deeply, and exhaled. "This whole thing, it's never going to work. Casual sex always ends, and all the signs are telling us it'll end badly. We could ruin each other, Malfoy, or we could stop before it hurts."

There was a little  _thwack_  against his shoulder, then another.

Raindrops.

Rain.

"Someone better is out there," she reminded him, firmer now than she had been all day, because for once, she had the data to prove it. "Statistically speaking, it's just a fact. At this exact moment, there's an entire table full of people we're more compatible with than each other, and that means—"

"Stop." His voice was rough, but neutral. "I get it, Granger. Your argument is sound."

"Do you?"

"Yes."

The rain was falling faster, saturating her dress and his shirt. She would have loved to fuck him in the rain, to kiss him in it, but she had a feeling that was never as pretty as the pictures made it look. Who wanted wet clothes, wet hair, makeup dripping and shoes sloshing? And anyway, water was the worst possible lubricant. She knew that. She knew things.

She was right about this, too.

 _Stop me_ , she almost said.  _Tell me I'm missing something._

She'd never hoped for that before in her life.

_Tell me I miscalculated._

She never did.

_Tell me my reckoning is wrong._

It never was.

"You're right," he said.

She let her head fall, feeling the rain drip down the back of her neck.

"I know."

He took half a step forward, as if maybe he might say something, might possibly have something else to add, but before he could, they both caught the sound of footsteps behind her.

"Hey," said Padma, reaching a charmed umbrella out to cover Hermione's head. "Sorry to bother you, but something's happened. Ron said I should tell you both."

Draco looked up but said nothing. "What is it?" Hermione asked, without looking up.

"It's Nott," Padma said. "He's been arrested."

"That's not news," Hermione scoffed, but Padma shook her head.

"He's been arrested," she repeated, "for crimes of corporate fraud, bank fraud, identity theft, bribery and corruption, insider dealing and market abuse, embezzlement, money laundering, terrorist financing, financial record keeping, criminal conspiracy, intimidation, and—" She paused, searching her memory, and then snapped her fingers. "Arson."

In response to several seconds of Hermione and Draco's silence, Padma cleared her throat.

"It's bad," she clarified.

"Yes, astoundingly we did arrive there," Draco said in his stiff, dry voice, and suddenly it occurred to Hermione that perhaps, when he sounded like that, he wasn't being dismissive or impassive or emotionless at all. He was just confused and tightly-sealed, trying desperately not to leak out through his cracks.

She shot a glance at his wrist. He had rolled his sleeves up long ago, feeling comfortable even when she hadn't, and for once his watch was not in the way.

38%.

Balls.

"Well, come on, then," Padma said, and Hermione and Draco both turned to follow, neither quite able to look the other in the eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, this is for everyone who said some variation of "is it bad that this is so me?" re: Hermione's internal sex monologue. It isn't bad, and I promise, it isn't just you. Also, for ElmHolly, who will hopefully not be late for work; bonkaiqueen, who I hope will never shut up; guest 394, because I loled and also blushed; and shanonymous_user, for *gestures around broadly.* Thanks for being here! Quote comes from Napoleon Dynamite, a tale of loserdom and the power of dance: "What are you gonna do today, Napoleon?" "Whatever I feel like I wanna do, GOSH." **Edited 8/12/2019 to add:** I'm very sorry, but due to family obligations chapter 9 will be a week delayed. Thank you for your patience! Don't worry, I will be back to our regularly scheduled programming very soon.


	9. Stop Trying to Make Fetch Happen

**Chapter 9: Stop Trying to Make Fetch Happen**

_Give or take five minutes of awkward silence  
10 August 2002_

Padma pitched off rather quickly, looking for Ron or something, and for a moment Hermione considered doing the same. Not the Ron bit, of course, as she doubted he would be helpful to this or any situation, but rather the concept of flight in general; under the circumstances, any variant of 'run away' was really quite high on the list of plausible actions Hermione preferred to take. For one thing, she did not consider it crucially important that she learn the specific details of whatever it was Theo had done. It was a matter of  _clinical_  interest, surely, as Hermione had never heard of anyone committing such a broad list of atrocities in the frivolity of their spare time, but considering she had little intention to save him, her presence was not strictly necessary for his rescuing. She could have easily sent Draco off to collect him—if such a collecting could even be done given the massive scope of illegality—without accompanying him at all. Her omission from this particular episode of havoc would have been highly understandable, as she did not like and had never liked Theo Nott.

(Unless of course she did, in which case everything she'd come to feel over the course of that maddening summer was quite obviously suspect, and also probably a ponderance that would have to wait for another, less burdensome time.)

Logically, of course, she couldn't simply  _leave_ , as she had not only suggested friend-adjacent intentions to Draco Malfoy (and friendship, in her experience, carried weighty implications of being present during moments of significance; see also, Time Travel is Not a Toy, 1994) but was also obligated by her decade-long oath to Harry, who was almost certainly going to find this news distressing. If Hermione's prior experiences had proven anything, it was that people were somewhat disinclined to listen to Harry Potter when he suspected someone of being a dangerous criminal (See also: Voldemort Who?, 1995-96). Thus, Hermione anticipated that Harry, perhaps even more so than Theo, would require a defense.

(And unavoidably there was Draco, who, while not conventionally a friend, was also not  _not_  a friend, and additionally Hermione was beginning to feel a bit despondently ill, which was probably unrelated but then again, perhaps not.)

"Apologies for running out like this, but I'm afraid we've been informed of a small emergency and now have to leave," Hermione told Pansy, as departing the event without notice would have been rude. As a rule, Hermione was not rude, not even to women who were seated on the laps of their new husbands while looking vaguely murderous at being interrupted from the joining of their mouths in what could only be ruled  _un_ -holy matrimony, so Hermione added politely, "I do hope you enjoy the cake knife."

"Goblin silver?" asked Pansy, still rather unpleasantly in the role of Snobbish Heiress. Though, in her defense, someone had to have cast the rather proficient rain-repellant charm over what remained of the reception, and Hermione had a feeling—based largely on how well the enchantment's hue matched the table linens—that it must have been Pansy herself.

"Yes," replied Hermione, equally devoted to the part of Mannered Person of Acquaintance.

"Tasteful," Pansy remarked, in a tone suggesting things could have been worse, and then glanced at Draco. "What are you prancing off early for?"

"Nott," said Draco, who was now playing the role of Sulking Scowler No. 1.

"Did he burn something down?"

"Evidently yes."

"Good for him," Pansy said, adding, "Well, goodbye forever," before turning her attention back to matters of amorous recreation.

"Bye, Percy," Hermione said, though of course he was unable to respond, having been swallowed up by Pansy's affections. He gave her an inattentive wave, constituting sufficient farewell, and upon satisfaction of the usual call and response, the social transaction was complete. "Well," Hermione determined, turning to Draco. "Shall we, then?"

He seemed considerably less than enthused, still leaning slightly to the left of perfectly indifferent. Hermione was about to reach for her wand, having observed that it was going to be her responsibility to undertake the necessary motions forward, and jerked with discomfort when Draco's fingers brushed hers.

"What's this?" she demanded, mildly alarmed.

"Based on your reaction? A violent assault," he replied with a scowl. "Though, seeing as I intended to brutally subject you to the indignity of side-along apparition, perhaps the error was mine."

His ability to regress was biblically vengeful. It was worthy of, among other things, prolonged academic study. "So, you're obviously not fine, then," Hermione determined with a sigh, and Draco gave her something of an irritated glare.

"Why shouldn't I be fine? You're fine."

"Did I say I was fine?"

"You," he said with a weighty element of unhelpfulness, "are being perfectly you."

It did not take a genius to know that was an insult, though of course she had never been intellectually wanting. Needless to say, trying to be friends with Draco was going to present a challenge; their relationship was back, Hermione glumly supposed, to strained attempts at amicability.

"If you'd like to go alone," she began, but he had already reached out to grip her shoulder, having parted ways with what remained of his limited patience.

"Don't make a thing of it, Granger, I beg you," departed from his mouth before they were both sent lurching through the air, arriving with a perfunctory pop atop the Ministry's marble floor.

Neither of them expected to see the event that was taking place; the instant clamor of the Ministry's lobby startled them both into momentary wobbling, though they rapidly sprang apart upon contact. The crowds—thin enough that something had only recently happened, but increasing with enough vigor to prove it was a rather considerable 'something' indeed—were just oppressive enough to compel Hermione forward, jostling her a little in their haste.

From afar, Hermione spotted one of the usual  _Daily Prophet_  photographers standing beside (of all people!) Padma Patil, who was now wearing her press badge over the dress she'd worn to Pansy's reception. Hermione, bewildered, gave a reluctant Draco's arm a tug, sidling up to Padma with confusion. "What's going on? I thought you were with Ron."

"I was, but Dauntless owled me just a moment ago," Padma said distractedly, peering over the top of the crowd and then levitating herself an inch or so off the ground. "Evidently Shacklebolt's called some sort of mysterious press conference," she murmured down to Hermione, "and Dauntless thinks there might be something of interest."

Hermione frowned. "Kingsley himself, really? But why would he—"

"Ladies and gentlemen of the press, your cooperation please," boomed an amplified version of Kingsley's voice. Hermione and Padma exchanged a curious glance, equally intrigued, while Draco silently evaluated the ceiling. "I understand your urgency," Kingsley assured the crowd, "but of course there is little I can reveal at this time. Matters concerning the Department of Magical Law Enforcement must remain confidential while investigations are actively in progress."

The immediate uproar of vehement disapproval seemed to suggest he was deeply mistaken.

"Minister, is it true you've arrested Head Auror Dawlish in cooperation with several high profile members of the Wizengamot?" shouted a staff member bearing a  _Witch Weekly_  press badge.

Evidently even the gossip rags had a compelling interest in learning the source of Kingsley's distress, Hermione observed with interest, though that would be no surprise if the correspondent was correct in her allegations. It was never a good sign when  _Witch Weekly_  had been tipped off in advance, but not the  _Prophet_. Who would want a salacious magazine for the likes of Molly Weasley to be informed over a perfectly respectable news source?

"Well, if Dawlish was arrested, it's no wonder the Minister's handling it himself," Padma commented, turning to Hermione with a grimace. "What a nightmare for the Ministry. Any idea about this?"

Not a one. Unless, of course, someone had reason to believe the  _Daily Prophet_  would bury the story on behalf of the Ministry, in which case…

"It can't possibly be about Nott," Hermione said, frowning. "Could it?"

"I can't see how," Padma admitted, "but the timing is certainly questionable."

Hermione slid a glance at Draco, who was now silently inspecting his shoes.

"Everyone, please stay calm," Kingsley said, looking unhelpfully distressed. "As soon as there is anything to announce, I will be the first t-"

"Is it true Harry Potter was the apprehending Auror?" demanded another voice, bewildering Hermione even further. When  _she_  had last heard from the Auror in question, he had been spilling champagne on his robes and then deciding, despite his ability to vanish anything into thin air, to simply do nothing about the stain, which left her to wonder how Harry Potter could have possibly managed any apprehending in the unaccounted time in between. "Will Auror Potter be addressing the matter publicly?"

"I'd better go talk to someone and see what's what. I'll owl you later with news," Padma whispered to Hermione, slithering through the crowd with quill in tow.

Hermione, who continued to have no business there outside of mild curiosity, was left at the back of the press conference with Draco, passing him a sidelong glance. He, of course, had vanished any evidence of being caught in the rain save for one sliver of a pale blond wave, which now brushed his forehead. For as meticulous as he typically was, he had a remarkable habit of transfiguring the occasional bout of inattention into something of an art form; had Hermione not felt a strange wariness between them since their argument, she might have even remarked on it aloud.

"What?" he said, glancing expectantly at her.

Her gaze dropped to his narrowed grey eyes. "What's what?"

"You," Draco said, brow creasing. "You're staring."

"At what?"

"I just asked you, didn't I?"

This, Hermione thought, was obviously going to be a long day.

"Come on," she sighed, giving up on Shacklebolt and making her way to the lifts with Draco sullenly in her wake.

It was a bit strange to be walking this path with him again, considering the first time they'd done it she'd been telling him he was an arse and now she felt a bit like saying it again, but for deeply different reasons.

Maybe there was a reason people who were only 38% compatible didn't typically spend their time together.

"Look," Hermione attempted, straining for reparations between leaving the lifts and opening the Auror office's door. "I'm trying to be fair to both of us, Malfoy, but I think it's obvious you're choosing to resent me for it."

"Oh," Draco remarked with a dismissive edge of attention, "so you think this is a choice, then?"

"I certainly think you could elect to something more helpful."

"I told you, Granger, you're right," he said, sounding bored. "I've already submitted to your intellectual supremacy, haven't I? So unless you'd prefer I compose a sonnet for the occasion, I think I've said enough."

Marvelous. Friendship was going to be a breeze.

"Well," Hermione remarked in defense of her former self, "silly me for thinking this could end badly, then. Perhaps I should have given you what you wanted less frequently," she suggested, blistering with the idea she might have mistakenly allowed herself to presume his interest in her to be anything beyond the physical, "and then we might have simply arrived here sooner?"

For a moment, he looked as though she'd slapped him. "What?"

"Well, with sex off the table it seems fairly clear I hold no further interest for you," Hermione pointed out, "so—"

"So then why be friends at all?" he demanded. "If you think so little of me."

It stung, but it was also a valid point. The validity, in fact, was particularly stinging. Why, on Godric's green earth, was she still standing there? If everything was how it appeared to be, surely there was no reason to stay.

Only 38% of one at best, and that was hardly compelling.

"I, Malfoy, am trying to be civil," she reminded him. "You're the one being petty."

He muttered something under his breath; she narrowed her eyes at him.

"What?"

"I said," he announced, and then grimaced. "I said it's pronounced pretty," he informed her, and then, with all the arrogance of someone who had  _not_  just said something outrageously stupid, he shoved open the door to the Auror offices and waltzed inside, leaving Hermione to follow with a roll of her eyes.

They both halted, however, at the sight of something so unlikely Hermione was forced to pause for a moment, questioning whether she may have fallen into an alternate reality. Specifically, one where, perhaps, eyes could be persuaded to see the impossible, or to not even be eyes at all, becoming instead chasms of the unimaginable.

"You could knock," remarked Theo, who was not in his usual spot, and also not remotely where he should have been at all.

* * *

As was becoming a painfully recurring sequence, Draco and Hermione had markedly different reactions to what they were seeing. For the first time, Draco wished he'd been living inside  _her_ brain, as things seemed to be very straightforward there.

For example, Hermione's response of, "Something's happened to your buttons, Nott," was thoughtful, really. Fairly genial, as far as greetings went, in response to the sight of Theo's shirt ripped savagely open, plus the additional detail of having one many-ringed hand submerged in the trousers belonging to the Savior of the Wizarding World. Somehow, whatever  _Hermione_ thought was happening seemed to be stomachable; hardly even noteworthy. Something had merely happened to Theo's buttons! How very untraumatic and, quite possibly, perfectly mundane.

(For the record, there was really no point repeating what Draco had said. It was less genial, and not very thoughtful, and really quite obscene.)

"Oh, come now, Malfoy, let's not be vulgar," said Theo, removing his hands from Harry Potter's pants with such lofty affectation Draco was surprised he hadn't put on sunglasses specifically for that remark. "And Granger, per usual, you are infallibly correct."

"Sorry," Harry contributed with a certain lack of sheepishness, which was what Draco supposed happened to a person once they had defeated a villainous overlord. How could one manage to feel something as malevolent as  _shame_  for anything, following such an event? Harry Potter had been lost to customary social behaviors the day he uncovered Lord Voldemort in their Defense professor's turban (or, what Hermione would probably call, "Ethnic Headwear in Conjunction With Terrorism Against Schoolchildren is Not Inherently an Indication of Racism… And Yet; 1992.")

"Didn't expect anyone to be coming in until later," Harry remarked, proving Draco largely correct in his suspicions, "what with all the commotion downstairs."

"Do you know what's going on with Shacklebolt, then?" asked Hermione. Draco had said something as well, but he had used a few more tasteless words, managing only barely to string them into the form of a question. It appeared the other three were less concerned with him at the moment, though, as Hermione went on to explain, "He's briefing the press right now, sort of."

"Sort of?" Theo echoed, leaning against Harry's desk. He had not bothered to repair his buttons, even with Hermione's obvious concern for the state of them, which Draco thought was quite abrasively rude. (He, Draco, had not personally wanted to know whether Harry Potter possessed the carnal fortitude to tear the clothing off his sexual paramours! And now he did! Where was he expected to file that sort of information? It certainly couldn't be  _forgotten_ , and now what sort of mental shelf could he sit it on? Really, they should have been appalled, that was all.)

(...and  _another thing_ —it was not as if Draco had never seen Theo's bare torso before, but still, the circumstances…? And the audience…! Appalling, that was what! Appalled!)

"Wouldn't he either brief them or not?" Theo asked, appearing not to have noticed the way Draco was rapidly disintegrating into the floors.

"Well… hang on a minute," Hermione said, frowning at Theo. Draco, relieved that she seemed to have recalled the circumstances of their entry, waited for her to ask a question relevant to the scene they'd just witnessed, but unfortunately, hope was proving ferociously untenable for the second time that day. "Aren't you supposed to be arrested, Nott?"

Harry and Theo exchanged a glance.

"Yes," Harry confirmed. "Nott was arrested."

Understandably, Hermione remained bewildered. "But—"

"And then I was released," Theo supplied, "on the basis of my infernal charm."

Draco, already exhausted, sank into a nearby chair, which turned out not to be a chair at all but instead an open desk drawer.

"False," said Harry. "He was released because he was working for me."

Drawers, chairs. What was the difference, really, when perhaps Harry Potter and Theo Nott had recently fornicated on both?

Draco shuddered and shot to his feet.

"True," Theo said, as Draco commenced an unsettled pattern of pacing, "but in general, the infernal bit can never be fully dismissed from the equation."

"The point is," Harry cut in, mercifully taking the helm where it came to narrative consistency, "what with all of Theo's—"

"Wooing," said Theo, in place of the word Draco would have used, which for the record was 'crime,' or possibly 'societal desecration.'

"...that," Harry permitted, at least retaining a healthy dose of wariness from his lifetime of death threats, "he was able to, well—"

"Expedite the process," Theo supplied, and Hermione frowned.

"Expedite which process?"

Again, Theo and Harry exchanged a glance.

"It appears multiple Wizengamot members retained a variety of money-making scams they initiated during the war," Harry said, prompting Hermione's eyes to widen. "It was… well, a number of public officials, actually, all of whom were paying Dawlish to keep quiet, and—"

"And who could blame them, really?" Theo cut in, shrugging. "The general sense the world could end at any moment makes for a very compelling reason to start a variety of pyramid schemes, and nobody likes a loss of income."

"What I was  _going_  to say was that I wasn't able to expose it," Harry said with a glare, "until Nott decided to become the perfect avenue for corruption."

"Thank you," Theo said, visibly touched.

"He took to it frighteningly well," Harry remarked. "Squirreled himself right in. Very alarming."

"Dear Rolfe: Stop," said Theo, heart-eyed. "Don't stop! Your Liesl."

"He owled me once he had sufficient evidence for arrest," Harry finished, which explained his discreet departure from Pansy's wedding, "and of course for show I apprehended him along with the Warlocks, and… now here we are."

He waved a hand; some loose equivalent of  _ta-da_ , for which his showmanship certainly could have used some work.

Hermione, meanwhile, was still gaping at both of them; puzzling out the question of massive political conspiracy, most likely. Immense wealth probably struck her, highly incorrectly, as something that typically happened above board, which was something Draco might have clarified if he were able to think about anything besides…

Christ, he was thinking about it again.

(What did they expect him to do with this information, hm? How was he supposed to  _sleep_  now, knowing that at any moment his best friend was being gleefully vulgarized in a place he customarily trusted for its sanitation?)

"So, a warlock orchestrated… a pyramid scheme?" Hermione echoed, astounded.

"One did, yes. They all had their little pockets of tribulation," Theo assured her. "Selling dark artifacts to Death Eater supporters, for example. Some were handsomely compensated by Voldemort, you know, just to keep things in general working order. Never much for bureaucracy, the Dark Lord," he remarked tangentially. "Say what you will about his leadership style, but the man knew his strengths."

"Troubling," Hermione said, though in regards to what, Draco could not definitively say. "Very troubling."

"In any case," Harry said, clearing his throat, "I'd have mentioned it earlier, only I had to keep it relatively quiet for Nott's protection."

"Was he undercover long?" Hermione asked, glancing at Theo with the sort of concern Draco would have preferred be directed at him.

"It took some time," Theo confirmed gravely. "Nearly a week."

"Oh," said Hermione, disappointed. "I thought maybe  _all_  the crime was—"

"Wooing," Theo corrected. "Wooing, Granger."

This time, upon his renewed attempt to sit, Draco determined that if the chair happened to be a bin, he would happily put himself inside it.

"Right." Hermione remained a bit unsettled. "But what about the arson?"

"The…? Oh." Briefly, Harry's cheeks flamed. "Well—"

"Oh, please," Theo said with a sudden burst of exasperation, turning an irritated glance to Harry. "You're going to count that? It was barely a fire!"

"That," Harry told him with a vault of his stubborn chin, "is definitely going on your record, Nott. You can't burn down every tapestry that displeases you."

"I was undercover," Theo insisted.

"No, you weren't," Harry told him. "You're just incredibly spiteful."

To everyone's dismay, Theo's mode of retort was to lean forward, tugging Harry into him and dragging Harry's startled mouth to his own while Draco hastily turned away, regretting his unwise pondering on how things could have possibly gotten worse.

"That was our first fight," Theo said gruffly, releasing a dazed Harry and returning to civil conversation. "Don't make me burn down our second."

"This," Hermione pointed out, having finally arrived at the topic at hand as she frowned between them. "This… is…?"

"Patent idiocy," said Theo, at the same moment Harry replied, "Something we will all surely come to regret."

"But—"

"It just happened," Harry fumbled to explain, looking bashful at last. "I wasn't  _intending_  t-"

"Well, it 'just happened' last week," Theo corrected, choosing an unnecessary time to fulfill Hermione's slavish devotion to accuracy. "This morning he asked for it."

"Gross," Draco silently bemoaned, though yet again, no one was listening.

"Nott," Harry growled, "I didn-"

"In fairness to him," Theo clarified, "last night I all but begged."

"I'm feeling rather faint," remarked Draco, to which nobody replied.

"Harry," Hermione said, turning to him with a coltish look of astonishment. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Mm, well. Mostly I'd really hoped it wasn't true," Harry said, which was a fairly reasonable response, all things considered. He glanced at Theo with a half-puzzled frown, adding, "I'm also not entirely sure I  _could_  explain whatever it is we're doing."

"The case is over, isn't it?" Theo prompted. "No reason to hide."

"So then you want to," Harry began, and then, after several seconds of severe internal turmoil, "date, I suppose?"

"Yes, I think so," Theo said. "I have unresolved feelings towards you that I intend to carry out indefinitely. I suppose dating is the customary approach."

"Oh." Harry considered it. "Unresolved feelings?"

"Amorous feelings," Theo clarified, "which largely prevail unrealized."

"In what way?"

"Many remain unsaid. In fact I've barely scratched the surface."

"You have?"

"Well, I hardly know you. Certainly not as well as I'd like to."

Harry frowned. "And what do you want to know?"

"Everything," Theo said. "Things even you don't know, I imagine, and certainly things no one else could tell me. Things neither of us could possibly know until this time tomorrow, or this time next year, or possibly the conclusion of a lifetime. Though, of course," Theo graciously conceded, "maybe I will have all I need to know very shortly, and then the rest will be a fun exercise in gratuity. I do, for what it's worth, have a taste for lavishing in excess."

"Ah," Harry said slowly. "Unresolved. I see."

Somehow, despite the ostensible lack of indecency, Draco felt even sicker, realizing how effortless it had been for Theo to put into words the same horrifying aberration that lived in an unceasing pit in his stomach.

"So," Theo said. "Do you have any opposition?"

"I genuinely wish I did," Harry said, "but it appears we're on the same page."

"Regrettable," Theo agreed, "but convenient."

"Quite. And the arson?"

"All's fair in love and war," Theo said with a shrug. "I'm sure you'll make it up to me."

"Those are my options, love or war?" Harry replied, doubtful. "Either seems a bit much, doesn't it?"

"Yes," Theo said. "But I like much. Any less and I simply can't think what to do with myself."

"Oh." Harry was silent another moment. "Well, I suppose I do, too."

"Unfortunate," Theo said, turning with finality to Draco. "In any case, I don't think I'll be needing your services today, Malfoy, as I am quite accidentally a hero and therefore have purposeful plans to bask appropriately." He flicked a glance at Harry, spelling out his intentions in a gruesomely expressive motion before turning back to Draco. "I imagine your more compatible half understands."

"Please stop," requested Draco, nauseated.

"That's… it?"

For a moment they had all forgotten Hermione, who was staring owl-eyed between them.

"You're mad," was her subsequent comment to Harry and Theo, which was, for once, the appropriate degree of reaction in Draco's view. "You can't genuinely think this is a good idea, can you?"

"I'm not generally known for my good ideas," Harry reminded her, apologetic. "I'm not sure I even know how to recognize one."

"That's certainly true." Hermione chewed her lip, contemplating something in silence, and shrugged, apparently deciding it could wait. "Well, I suppose we should go, then," she determined, glancing briefly at Draco. "If you don't need us for anything."

Draco was surprised, and unwillingly bolstered, by her use of the collective 'we,' though naturally he said nothing.

"You are very unnecessary to what I'd like to do now, yes," Theo confirmed for Hermione's benefit. "Which is nothing personal. Well, only in that I don't have any attraction to you personally," he clarified, "but in fairness I feel similarly towards Draco, so perhaps we can agree to disagree."

"A 'goodbye' would have sufficed," Hermione informed him.

"Funnily enough, it's not remotely your satisfaction I'm concerned with, Granger," Theo lazily replied, and then turned to Harry with such a purposeful look of predation that Draco hurriedly took Hermione by the arm.

"See you at home," meandered out in Harry's muffled voice just before the office door shut, and then Hermione carefully extricated herself from Draco's grip, turning to look at him.

"That," she said, "was—"

"Disgusting," Draco confirmed. "Yes, I know."

"I was going to say illogical." She was staring up at him, searching him for something he wasn't sure she would find, though he wanted her to.

Maybe. Or maybe he didn't.

It had occurred to him while she was breaking things off that possibly he would never be able to tell her the things she wanted to hear. He had not had much practice making people happy. He wasn't sure he could do it even if he tried, or that his efforts, if he could summon them, would even register as trying. If Theo wanted affection in excess that was all well and good; he was armed to return it, in his own manic way, tenfold. Draco, on the other hand, had always been rather inept.

True, Hermione was right that she had never asked him for perfection, but she deserved it, or at least someone a little closer to perfect than he could ever be. She would have expectations for him that he would never reach, and if there was one area Draco Malfoy excelled, it was providing disappointment.

And now, it seemed, it was his turn to talk.

"I think we should see other people," he said, and watched her face warp slightly with the first indication he'd done precisely as he was inevitably wont to do.

"Yes, I was thinking the same thing," she said, and reached out, nudging his watch up. "What do you think it means?" she asked, tapping the 39% that glowed there now. "I've seen the enchantment, the way it breaks down, but I really can't make sense of why we increase."

He couldn't quite bring himself to meet her eye just then. "How does it break down?"

"Oh, you know," she said absently, running her thumb along the shape of their percentage. "Sexual compatibility, of course. Personality types; extroverted or introverted, judging or perceiving, basic things like that. Foundational morals, learning preferences, core beliefs. Conflict management, communication styles, complementary goals and aspirations." She was still holding his wrist in her hand. "Why do you always wear this watch, by the way?"

"It's actually not mine," he said, relieved to have something else to discuss. "It's Theo's." She frowned up at him in confusion, and he shrugged. "He asked me to hold onto it once when we went flying, and I suppose I just keep wearing it in case he ever asks for it back."

"When was that?"

"We were… sixteen? I think."

"Oh." She smiled, looking a little distant. "You're a good friend, Draco Malfoy. Quite a good friend." She repeated it quietly to herself, releasing his hand with what he might have called reluctance if hope had not been squandered enough that day already. "I think it would nice, really, being friends with you."

Well, he lamented silently, now she'd done it. He would have to be the best friend she'd ever had, which was probably going to be exhausting. "Keep your expectations low," he cautioned her, providing an arched look of warning, and she rolled her eyes.

"Oh, they're practically on the floor," she assured him. "You forget, the majority of the time I've known you you've been monstrous. 'Good' really has quite a range."

"Comforting, Granger, very comforting."

Better he didn't lose her, he reminded himself. Better he didn't harm her or disappoint her, because anything that drove her away would only mean he would have to miss her, and that was the one thing he didn't think he could stand.

"You could call me Hermione now," she suggested, and after a hesitant pause, reached up to brush the stray hair from his forehead, smoothing it back against his scalp. "If you wanted."

He closed his eyes at her touch, just for a moment. It felt magnified, somehow. As if she'd told him something else, something new, just by doing it. For a man who had expected to spend the night in her bed until about an hour ago, he really wasn't that disappointed.

"Eh," he said.

She smiled, and if this was heartbreak, it was far sweeter than he deserved. She was right; better this way, saying goodbye to his shot with a girl who didn't yet hate him, just so things could always stay as pretty as that smile.

"Well, I guess I'd better find Padma," she said, glancing over her shoulder. Her mind would be onto some new puzzle by now. With her, it was always bigger and better things.

"Go," he assured her, and then, before he could stop himself, he had already added, "Let me know when you get home."

Instantly, Hermione's face contorted with confusion. "Why?"

He figured he could lie, but what was the point? "So I know you're home," he said. Safe, and somewhere invisibly in his orbit.

She gave him a strange look of utter, unreadable bewilderment.

"Oh," she said, and then, "See you around, Malfoy," before taking a few quiet steps down the hall, disappearing contemplatively into the lifts.

* * *

"So," Padma said a few days later, "how's it going?"

"Fine," said Hermione, falling into the seat opposite Padma's desk to review their research. As the article came closer to completion, they'd taken to compiling their respective portions together at the end of the day. "Lily Moon has the final stop in her tour tomorrow night, so I'm putting together one big spread from the previous articles. Oh, and George's trial is next week, so I have to make sure the  _Meant 4 Me_  article is all set bef-"

"I meant with Malfoy," Padma interrupted gently, and Hermione blinked.

"What?"

"How is it going?" Padma repeated, taking a testing sip of her tea and then settling herself in her desk chair. "Since you've broken up, I mean."

"Oh. We didn't break up, we just—"

"Fine, yes—not a relationship, not a breakup," Padma summarized for her, waving a hand to fast-forward through Hermione's customary clarification on the subject. "Still, are you doing okay?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, I'm not saying you shouldn't be," Padma assured her. "I just know from experience that filling the vacancy someone leaves behind is… difficult, I suppose."

"Vacancy? I'm not full of holes without him, Padma." Sex was important, of course, but hardly paramount.

"I meant more like time vacancies," Padma said. "You were spending a lot of time together, weren't you? For a couple of weeks, at least."

"Oh," Hermione said again. "Well, it's… complicated."

(From her to him, somewhere shy of 2 a.m. two days ago:  _Are you awake?_

From him to her, shortly afterwards:  _Don't tell me you've gone weak for me already._

From her, with an implied sigh:  _Never mind._

From him, with an implied scoff:  _Oh no you don't. What is it?_

From her:  _Nothing. I can't sleep and Harry's not home._

From him:  _Don't tell me that. I need to steep in my ignorance a little longer._

Her:  _It doesn't actually bother you that he's seeing Theo, does it?_

Him:  _I have a sensitive stomach, you know this. However, I will say they make a lot of sense. In many ways they are both the worst person I've ever met._

Her:  _Understandable. Who is the best, just out of curiosity?_

Him:  _Tough question. Competitive. I've known a lot of upstanding people, given my circles._

Her:  _Well, at least you didn't leap right to Borgin or Burke._

Him:  _They're tied for top three for sure._

Her:  _Anyone else?_

Him:  _Maybe if I had never watched you go to the Yule Ball with him, I would have said Viktor Krum._

Her:  _What did I have to do with it?_

Him:  _I was a teenage boy, Granger. Besides, I never like seeing someone better at quidditch than me having better toys, too._

Her:  _So now I'm an object?_

Him:  _For the sake of the metaphor, yes. Shouldn't you recognize standard literary techniques?_

Her:  _Malfoy, it's ever so tiresome when you descend to baseline standards of heteronormativity. If you're going to taunt me, do it with a little panache._

Him:  _Oh, Granger. You know perfectly well I consider you passably sentient._

Her: … _and here I am, continually astounded that I manage to resist your charms._

Him:  _Fine, fine. Will it help if I tell you that you, in fact, are the best person I've ever known?_

Her:  _Of course not. For one thing, I don't believe you, and for another, you're lying._

Him:  _Well, fair enough. Though I'd still rather talk to you than most people, Granger. And hopefully by now you know that's essentially the same thing._ )

"Of course it's complicated," Padma said, propping her feet up on her desk. "Humans always are."

"I really haven't had time to notice," Hermione assured her, setting down the pages she'd written for their piece to prove it. "I've been working, haven't I?"

"Anything else?" prompted Padma, arching a brow.

"What else would I be doing?"

"Oh, I don't know. Dating, perhaps?" she suggested. "You did say you intended to see other people when we first discussed it."

"I certainly intend to, but I don't currently know who I would date," Hermione said. "I thought maybe I would wait a bit before jumping back in."

"Well, that's perfectly reasonable. Women are unceasingly being told to find someone," Padma remarked with a sigh, exchanging the first of many conspiratorial glances for the evening with Hermione, "and truly, it's absurd. I just wondered if you'd considered it. Someone interesting on your list, maybe?"

(From him, last night:  _Who's on your list?_

From her, still at the office:  _What list?_

From him:  _Your list with all the percentibles._

From her:  _Not a word, Malfoy._

Him:  _Not everyone has the time to write out unnecessary phrases, Granger. Full words, in this economy? And anyway, answer the question._

Her:  _Why do you care?_

Him:  _I don't. I'm just curious. We're friends, aren't we?_

Her:  _Is this what you discuss with your friends?_

Him:  _If I had any, I'm sure we would. Unfortunately, I have Pansy, who is honeymooning, and Theo, who doesn't actually know how to have a normal conversation without besmirching international humanitarian law._

Her:  _Again, I don't know how to explain to you that this isn't a normal conversation either, but to answer your question, I was thinking about getting in touch with Gareth Pewsey._

Him:  _The boy bander? From The Gobstones?_

Her:  _That's the one. Lily Moon speaks very highly of him. Almost as highly of him as she speaks ill of Bastien Queensbury, actually. Provided he can be convinced to wear a shirt I suppose I might ask him to dinner when I see him at her show tomorrow._

Him:  _You don't have any… qualms about that?_

Her:  _What sort of qualms?_

Him:  _Well, he's a celebrity._

Her:  _So am I, Malfoy. And so are you, when you're feeling up for it._

Him:  _Not in a good way, and besides, he's a musician. And you're… you._

Her:  _I'm a highly qualified journalist, Malfoy. It's a notably respected field._

Him:  _He's probably slept with millions of women, don't you think?_

Her:  _That feels like an unrealistic number, but I suppose I could ask._

Him:  _It doesn't bother you if he has?_

Her:  _Well, I don't know how it could matter. I never asked you how many women you slept with, if you recall._

Him:  _Of course you didn't, because I'm not a rockstar._

Her:  _I'm sure you have plenty of talents, Malfoy, there's no need to demean your accomplishments. I've always liked that tie enchantment of yours._

Him:  _Are you actually comparing my household charms to the most famous alt-rock drummer in the wizarding world?_

Her:  _Percussion is hardly evidence of finesse, Malfoy. Don't disparage household charms. And anyway, just because a man can crash a cymbal doesn't mean he can find my clitoris, so really, as far as I can tell you've conflated these things for no reason._ )

"I have some ideas," Hermione said. "Nothing pressing."

"Well, if I didn't already think you'd have nothing in common, I'd suggest you have dinner with my sister while she's in town," Padma said. "Unfortunately, I don't really see that going well."

"Is Parvati not seeing anyone?"

"Not recently, no," Padma said. "But I suppose with Nott and Harry, you must already have your hands full with odd pairings."

"That," Hermione said, "is certainly true."

(From her to him, this morning:  _Nott was just in my kitchen scaring me half to death. Does he sit in the shadows habitually?_

From him to her, within the hour:  _Well, marvelous, now I'm thinking about him with Potter again. I only get a few hours without my brain reminding me that's a thing that's happening, and now I am once again bespoiled. I do not care for it. PS—yes, habitually, until the habit bores him. React precisely the same way each time and he'll stop. Eventually._

From her:  _He seems to take issue with me at the moment—Nott, I mean. Harry's fine, just busier than usual since Dawlish's arrest. Did you say something to him? Again, Nott. I can't think why he'd be so suspicious of me; I'm very polite. But he gave me a hideously long lecture about how he and Harry are only 12% compatible and yet it bothers neither of them._

From him:  _That's because nothing bothers them. They're barely functional. How can anything bother someone who does not exist in reality? That's the real puzzle. If a tree falls and it was never aware it was a tree to begin with, will I ever escape the spiral of knowing Potter and Theo are sleeping together?_

From her, after a bit of time to meditate on matters of their friends' sex lives:  _I have a difficult time believing he's telling the truth, actually. About the 12%, I mean. They play at being idiots, obviously, and I certainly can't make sense of them as something that can last, but seeing them together… I suppose I can't unsee it, now that I have. It makes a very strange sort of sense to me, even if it truly, terribly doesn't._

From him, a few moments later:  _You sound wistful. It's very unlike you._

Her:  _Do I? I suppose I am. They have something very mad and very freeing. It's ridiculous, I know, but when they're together, I truly believe nothing else matters. Harry is happy, and Nott is… something that purports to be happiness. I suppose that's very whimsical, isn't it, my admiring their madness? And yet… here we are._

That was hours ago, and she had not heard back from him since.)

"You know what?" Hermione said, turning abruptly back to Padma after a moment immersed in thought. "I suppose a dinner with Parvati wouldn't hurt, if you wouldn't be terribly bothered by the idea."

Padma blinked. "Really? I mean, I know I brought it up, but—"

"Well, why not? I wouldn't know if Parvati and I got along until I tried, would I?" Hermione asked. Briefly, she replaced Padma in her sex dream with Parvati for a moment; it was slightly stranger, certainly, but not totally out of the question. "And anyway, you  _are_  twins."

"She's still an oddity, even to me," Padma demurred, and frowned slightly. "Are you sure?"

About this? Yes. Hermione's lack of response from Draco—and the fact that her awareness of his silence was still living in her unsettled mind—was enough to remind her that all this waiting for him she was doing was probably a symptom of the un-ideal. When she had been interviewing Astoria for the follow-up article on the Sacred School the previous evening, she had hardly been able to stop thinking about him. Twice Hermione had nearly blurted out some inappropriate ponderance about him, if only to fill her inexplicable need to say his name with someone who knew it well. In the end she'd crossed her legs tightly, and, after wondering whether Draco might have previously put his mouth there or there or there when it came to the exposed neckline of Astoria's off-the-shoulder day dress, Hermione had hurried away in a flurry of simpering excuses, promising to contact the school's board via owl with any further questions.

What she needed, clearly, was a distraction. A new fixation, to replace the role she had irresponsibly allowed Draco to create. He had declined the option of more; fine. He had never led her to believe he would choose otherwise, and besides, this was a predictable extrapolation; an entropic descent from the already illogical. There was tangible psychology to the incongruity of 'absence makes the heart grow fonder,' and though it did not idiomatically account for 'out of sight, out of mind,' it certainly accommodated everything else. She had always known they represented some silly form of her own madness, after all. Wanting him had never made more than 39% of sense.

Though, perhaps the worst of the incompatibility was really their mismatched wanting; as it appeared she could not want him in moderation, she would have to rid herself of wanting him at all.

"I'm sure," Hermione said. "Maybe tomorrow night? A late dinner, or drinks?"

"I'll set it up," Padma promised. "But Hermione, really, if this isn't what you want—"

She had no idea what she wanted anymore, and that was precisely the problem. Even a definitive no on Parvati Patil would be better than floating around untethered, and besides, maybe it would be a yes. True, Parvati wasn't Padma, but that didn't mean there wasn't potential. If Hermione could feel a flustering, magnetic, compulsive missing of someone she was only 39% compatible with, was it not perfectly logical to give something else a chance?

If only to regain a little sanity.

"I want to," Hermione assured her. "Really. You'd be doing me a favor."

Padma gave her a sympathetic smile.

"Well, let's save the rest of 'complicated' for the bottle of wine when we finish," she said. "For now, let's get to work."

* * *

After receiving Hermione's owl, Draco had stared at a blank piece of parchment for ten entire minutes before rising promptly to his feet, departing the office without warning and arriving at the precise coordinates Theo had sent upon hearing conversation was to be had.

"She's going to start dating again," Draco announced before ascertaining what sort of place he'd just apparated into, and  _well_  before he noticed there were children flitting about at knee-level. "Sorry," he said to the small children, wading around until he spotted the lanky, sort-of adult haunting the shadows of the corner. Theo's characteristically eccentric appearance (or the fact that he was staring into a large glass terrarium) had already prompted most of the parents to drag their children hurriedly away, leaving room for Draco's approach.

"What's this?" he asked, nudging Theo, who startled to awareness.

"Oh, yes, hi," said Theo. "I'm looking for the snake."

"What snake?"

"The snake," Theo said again, waving a hand in reference to the placard beside the window. "The python or whatever."

"Or whatever?"

"You needed something?" Theo asked him, peering around until Draco, realizing that was the most he was going to get for the moment, heaved a burdensome sigh.

"She's going to start dating again," he repeated, lamenting the existence of all Gobstones, musical and otherwise, and Theo frowned.

"Well, my goodness. You'd think she'd at least wait for him to  _die_ ," he said, and then Draco frowned.

"What?"

"I think we can all agree he's a terrible man at best, Draco, but he's still her husband," Theo said. "Not to mention the Duke of Edinburgh, which is no small matter—"

"I… did you think I was talking about the Queen? I meant Granger," Draco said, and Theo glanced up with a scowl.

"You might have clarified before I grew concerned, but very well. I thought that was the point," he commented, still staring around for the terrarium's occupant. "This can't be the thing that sent you scurrying off here in the middle of a Saturday."

"It's Tuesday," Draco said.

"Oh." Theo straightened. "Well, this is probably useless then."

Draco hated to ask, but it seemed unavoidable. "And what, exactly, is 'this'?"

"Well, Potter seemed busy lately, so I thought I'd give him something more interesting to do," Theo said, vanishing from sight with a pop before reappearing on the other side of the glass. "Oi," he shouted, the sound of it slightly muffled. "Snake!"

"Nott," Draco sighed, leaning on the railing, "are you going to help me or not?"

"Help you with what?" Theo demanded through the glass. "If you don't want her to date other men then date her yourself," he said, scrutinizing the area around his feet. "I'd do it for you, but I really think it's important that you take a little initiative here, Malfoy. In terms of personal responsibility, your lack of prison time really shows."

"It's not that," Draco sighed, spotting the python and wondering if snakeskin was still a thing wizarding rock drummers wore, or if perhaps Hermione found it enticing. "It's up there, by the way."

"Oh, marvelous," Theo said, glancing up at the tree branch that was, in fact, a snake. "How do you do?"

The snake gave a bored little flick of its tail.

"Same," said Theo. "Give me a minute, would you? I've got…" He waved a hand in Draco's direction. "You know. You know how it is." At the snake's lack of reply, Theo made a series of halted hissing noises, and then turned back to Draco. "Anyway, as we were saying—"

"What did you just do?" Draco asked, observing that the snake had dropped from its branch to begin twisting around Theo's ankles.

"Well, I either said 'pardon my French' or 'God save the Queen,' no telling which," Theo said. "Potter says my attention to detail leaves something to be desired. In any case, I hardly think some indication Granger's interested in dating is enough to make you come rushing over, so is there more?"

"Yes," Draco said. "She's… expressing whimsy." That, and possibly being seduced by Gobstonian drummers, but that was temporarily less pressing.

"I'm sorry," Theo said blankly, exchanging a glance with the snake. "What?"

"It's—" Draco broke off with a sigh. "Look, Granger is usually very logical, yes?"

"Except when she's a lunatic," Theo confirmed, "but carry on."

"And it  _sounds_  like," Draco began, deeply pained, "possibly something has happened where she could conceivably be convinced that—"

"Let me stop you there," Theo said, partially because the snake had begun wrapping around his knees, and also because he appeared to have lost patience with Draco. He hissed a few more things at the snake, which released him with a sigh. "Teenagers," Theo remarked beratingly to nothing, and then turned his attention back to Draco. "What were we saying?"

"You told me to stop talking," said Draco, who was really quite wounded by it—the senseless remark, firstly, though also the fact that he had determined it unlikely he could pull off snakeskin—when Theo snapped his fingers.

"Yes, right. You're doing too much," Theo said. "Do less."

"What?"

"Just… all of it, tone it down. Take it way, way down."

"Nott, what the—"

"Does she know how you feel?" Theo asked, not for the first time, and Draco grimaced.

"Listen, I know you think it's simple, but if you just—"

"Right, that's pronounced 'no,' so let's just start there. Men, am I right?" he asked the snake, who hissed in ostensible agreement. "Anyway," Theo said, turning back to Draco, "it really does not have to be this complicated."

"You committed a series of  _crimes_  for Potter," Draco reminded him.

"Yes," Theo confirmed. "It's called a love language, Draco. Please respect my vibes."

Draco, frustrated, blurted out, "What does that even mean?"

"Hang on," Theo said, and then, with a flick of his wand, he vanished the glass, stepping out of the terrarium with a long-legged stride and glancing expectantly at the snake. "Are you coming?" A hiss. "I happen to like this shirt, thank you very much." Another hiss. "That's incredibly rude. Are you in or out?" Hiss. "Well, you're free to make your own judgments, but you should know apathy comes at great cost. If you want to parade around with that sort of attitude, that's on you," Theo said, and turned loftily to Draco. "Shall we?"

"You're not letting the snake out, are you?" Draco said. "You have to put the glass back."

"Don't be silly, Draco, we're hardly finished," Theo assured him, beckoning Draco to follow as the snake poked its head disinterestedly through the vacancy of glass. (The more he watched it, the more Draco was certain the snake  _was_ , in fact, a teenage girl, and also perhaps Theo did actually know how to talk to snakes, which was more than a small amount of concerning.)

"Look, if you want my advice," Theo said, and which Draco  _did_  want, despite all the evidence he shouldn't, "you've got to learn to tell her things in a way she'll understand, not a way that feels comfortable to you. See?" he added, flicking his wand again to remove another plane of glass. "Draco, my boy, you must always give her something to come back to."

Draco, skeptical, opted to clarify the situation with, "Are you saying you're setting a terrarium of snakes free in order to… give Potter something to come back to?"

"The boy is a fool for chaos," Theo said. "I hugged him once without warning and he demanded that I reveal my knives."

"And did you?"

"Yes, but that's not the point," Theo said. "You keep hoping Granger will  _intuit_ your feelings somehow, despite knowing perfectly well she intuits nothing."

"And yet she seems to  _intuitively_ agree that you and Potter belong together despite your abysmal percentage," Draco retorted, arriving sulkily at the point in issue, and Theo scoffed.

"Well, what's more likely, that statistics are a lie and humans are fallible creatures, or the alternative, that countless generations of evolutionarily refined pheromones and our underlying carnal instincts were the ones that somehow failed? Careful," he added, as Draco nearly stepped on a runaway garter snake. "The point is, we want what we want. You haven't given Granger the opportunity to know what that is, so she doesn't have the proper information to make a respective choice. If she did, then who's to say she wouldn't throw 39% out the window just as we did with 11%?"

"If that's even still what it is," Draco said glumly, having suspected the number rose whenever he was doing something stupid, or when he was acting (as he was now) with any fraction of Hermione's usual insanity. "Which is absurd, and anyw-"

He broke off, frowning.

"Wait a minute," Draco said, narrowly escaping a terrible impact underfoot when a toad leapt away from a slithering boa. "You told Granger your percentage with Potter was 12%."

"Hm? Oh, yes, that's the one," Theo said, stepping gracefully over one of the coral snakes to spy the teen python from afar. "Oi! Don't bite any children," he warned her, and she gave him what Draco could have sworn was an anti-authoritarian eye roll. "Well, not any of the good ones, anyway. Your Majesty," he added to what appeared to be a king cobra, sparing it a bow, and then turned lyingly back to Draco. "Anyway, the point is—"

"You monstrous, heaving pile of bollocks," Draco cut in loudly, causing half the snakes in the room to spare him a look of enormous disapproval. "You lied, didn't you?"

Conveniently, Theo became increasingly distracted by the chaos erupting around his lengthy stride. "Draco, really, you're going to have to be more specific, I obviously do not have the time to scour all of my possible falseh-"

"It  _was_  100%," Draco realized aloud, "wasn't it? The whole time." He couldn't decide whether that was a relief or totally infuriating until he decided, right at the last moment, that he was going with the rising sensation of embittered rage. "You saw you were 100% compatible with Potter and you  _pursued_  it, didn't you? This was just your mad way of acting on what you already knew was a sure thing," Draco snapped, incensed Theo had thought to teach him a lesson based on absolutely no merit, "and now you're behaving like—"

He had hoped, given his recent emotional injury, to maintain the moral high ground, but that was not to be the case.

"Fine. You want the truth?" Theo interrupted, rounding on him. "There is no such thing as certainty. You simply accept what you want to accept. You want to believe you'll never be good enough for Hermione Granger? Good, then you won't be, you're already not," he snapped, as Draco recoiled along with many of the snakes, all of them collectively shaken by Theo's outburst. "Being compatible with Harry Potter was not and  _will never_  be enough to make me deserving of him. I will do that on my own, every day for as long as he lets me, and that has not a single thing to do with the number on his wrist."

Sharply, Draco inhaled, surprised to hear the wavering of Theo's voice.

"You can acknowledge what you feel," Theo said, continuing on as if he had not just provoked an entire terrarium of venomous predators, "and you can choose to act accordingly—or not. But let me tell you this, Malfoy, if you choose to hear nothing else: nobody gets what they deserve. Most people get luckier than they should, and some people who should never will. You want to punish yourself forever? Fine, nobody's stopping you. But nobody is going to come along and fix you, either. It's not her job to complete you. Can she help you? Yes. Can she love you? If you let her. But you have to learn to be whole on your own."

Draco flinched, and glanced down, eyeing the riveted anaconda near his feet.

"You don't have to feel you deserve love to allow yourself to receive it," Theo said. "You don't have to feel worthy in order to give it. You want to know what the real privilege in loving someone is?" he prompted, and the anaconda nodded eagerly, though Draco did not move. "That you do everything you can, every day, and in return you're allowed to trust that what you have, and who you are, is enough."

For a long moment, there was nothing to fill the room aside from silence.

Then, gradually, the anaconda slid away, disappointed the speech seemed to be over. And Draco, who had a numb sort of feeling in his chest, did not look up until he felt a hand on his shoulder, startling him into looking up.

"For what it's worth, I think you're worthy as it is," Theo informed him. "The rest of it was more of a generalized message. You know," he added, gesturing around to the rest of the reptiles. "So the children learn something."

It occurred to Draco that he should probably express gratitude, but that was hardly his favorite thing.

"This," Draco told Theo instead, "is not an Auror matter. It's a muggle zoo, and my department will be called."

"Oh." Theo glanced around, sighing with disappointment. "Well, I'd just wanted to give him something in the field, I suppose. They promoted him after Dawlish's arrest," he explained, "but it turns out the whole job is paperwork, so…"

He trailed off, frowning at the menagerie of legless monsters. "Hm."

"Well, it's very romantic of you," Draco said, in what he hoped was a comforting tone. "But you should probably, you know. Break a more specific wizarding law, just in case."

"Will kidnapping do it?" Theo asked, endlessly optimistic.

Draco considered it, and then sighed.

"Imprisonment probably would," he said, "if the person in question was high profile enough."

By the time Harry Potter had swung by to return the snakes to their cages and to retrieve Draco from the teenage python's tree (a hospitable cellmate; mostly content to angst in silence), Draco was in a rush to return home. He hadn't answered Hermione's last note, which tended to bother her; true to form, one was waiting for him beside the Floo.

_Where have you been?_

_I'm sorry, it's complicated. I'll tell you later. Are you free tomorrow night?_

_I have Lily Moon's last concert and then I'm getting drinks after, so no. Maybe Thursday._

But he couldn't wait until Thursday. Certainly not when she was out with someone else. Particularly not when the someone else in question was  _Gareth Pewsey_ , who had the audacity to maybe wear snakeskin. And especially not when an entire day might pass without him telling her the truth.

He had never said he wasn't selfish.

In the end he barged into The Rutting Bull—the only place still open, tragically, for both himself and their entire patronage—to spot Hermione from afar, her curls bathed in flickering lights that probably would not have looked golden were he not in such a desperate hurry. He stumbled over to her booth, half-tripping on one of the other tables, and estimated in advance that he could probably take Gareth Pewsey in a fight if it came to that, which it certainly might. Draco was, after all, mostly famous for his proximity to almost-very-nearly violent crime.

"Granger, listen," he barked, pausing beside the table and managing a brief double-take when he saw what he thought at first was Padma, and then realized was actually  _Parvati_ , based mostly on the teal scarf woven eccentrically through her hair and the earrings she must have borrowed from Professor Trelawney (or, as Hermione might have said, "So This We Need to Know but Nevermind About Sexual Education or Basic Arithmetic, 1993-94.")

"Oh, I… sorry," Draco managed to fumble out, frowning. "I thought you were on a date, but—"

"I  _am_  on a date," Hermione said, glancing up at him with confusion. "Are you alright?"

He had the distinct feeling he looked precisely as mad as she usually sounded.

"Look, I realize there's a better way to do this. Sportsmanship, you know," he offered to Parvati, who arched a brow, dismissive. "But the thing is, Granger," he said, turning to her, "I wasn't totally honest with you."

She seemed lost. "When?"

"I… well, ever, I guess. No, that's… that's not true. Wait, listen," he said, though she had made no motion and neither had Parvati, aside from picking up her drink to rapidly, and rather rudely, drain it. "I should have told you I liked you, because I did. More than a friend. More than a not-friend. I liked you," he said, feeling his face heat, "and I didn't say anything."

"Oh." Hermione tilted her head. "Hm."

"And then it got worse," Draco went on, helpless to proceed any more skillfully. "Because then I wanted things I wasn't supposed to want. Things I shouldn't have had, like your…" He stammered, searching for a word. "Your confidences. Your fears, your hopes, your little pieces you should have reserved for someone good enough to fix them. You learned me so well," he said, sounding pleading, even to himself. "You're so clever, Granger. You're so smart you figured me out—and then you stayed better than me, too, because I was too selfish to let you. I was selfish and stupid, and to be honest, I really don't know how to be anything else."

He stopped, mostly out of not knowing where to go with that particular thought.

"This," Hermione commented, "is not a compelling sales pitch, Malfoy."

"I know. I know." He paced a little, glancing at the table next to theirs (with its drunken inhabitants) and sighed, wishing Theo were delivering this instead. "I don't know how to tell you what I want. I don't know what language to do it in—really, I don't. But look, this thing?" he begged her, hoping she'd miraculously understand. "You're right, it's not logical, because it's emotional. It's not logical because we're  _human_ , Granger, and we're idiots, and I'm asking you to… to just feel your stupid feelings with me. If you have them. God, fuck," he suddenly swore, "I didn't ask if you did, but—"

"I have them," she said quietly. "Go on."

He blinked at her. "You do?"

She shrugged it away, dismissing it.

"It's not logical," she prompted for him, "but…?"

Clearly she intended for him to finish his thoughts before expressing hers.

Fair enough. Then he would.

"I may not be the person you had in mind to love you," he told her raggedly, "but I swear, if you let me, I'll be the one who does it best." It was a promise, for whatever a promise from him was worth; to her credit, she seemed to know it, and the look on her face was enough to spur him on. "Maybe we'll never make sense," he conceded, "but I won't lie to you, I won't take you for granted, I won't try to make you smaller. I will care about you, about your thoughts and your happiness and your beliefs. I won't ask you to be anything more or less. I won't ask you to change one hair on your head, I promise—I will love you exactly as you are, and for everything you'll become. I want to be there, Granger," he said with a slightly manic laugh, "for everything, big things and small. I want to learn with you, to laugh and suffer and grow with you, and…"

Here it was.

"And I want to be the person you fall in love with, Granger," Draco exhaled, to her and the rest of this horrible place's miscreants, "because whoever that version of me is, and whatever he's like, if he gets to be loved by you, then fuck it. I want to be him."

For a moment, Hermione's face was completely expressionless.

Then, briefly, there was a small slurp from Parvati's straw.

"Well,  _damn_ , Malfoy," she said, ostensibly to Draco, or possibly to herself. "That's, wow. Wow." She shook her head, impressed, and her earrings gave a jangle. "I mean, we're really not having a very good time," she said, giving Hermione a glare. "She's somehow even more annoying than she was before, so you definitely did not need a whole speech. But if you really feel all that, then that's… well, it's wild, first of all, really, even I did not see it coming and I read my cards twice this morn-"

"Let's keep going," Hermione said, and Draco blinked.

"What?"

Somehow, in the midst of his catatonic disbelief, Hermione rose to her feet, taking his face in both hands, and told him again with a touch; a little brush of reassurance across his cheek.

"I said," she repeated, "let's keep going," and with that, as unlikely as it was—as if she had read the contents of his entire soul in the world's most depressing textbook—Hermione Granger had managed to say exactly what Draco Malfoy needed to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience during my absence! I'm still rushing to get this out in time and it is so hard to choose when so many of you delight me, but this is for rycewritestrash, lady_ravenpuff2021 (your emotions are not ew, but it's a relatable sentiment), wolfpack pride, and raynephoenix2 (that bath was too good to go unacknowledged). Last chapter I neglected to point out the Gatsby reference; this chapter, let me not fail to draw your attention to The Sound of Music. This chapter's title comes from the cinematic tour de force that is Mean Girls: "Gretchen, stop trying to make fetch happen. It's not going to happen."


	10. Not Even a Little, Not Even at All

**Chapter 10: Not Even a Little, Not Even at All**

_Meanwhile, inside the mind of Hermione Granger,  
22 August 2002_

Draco, or possibly someone who had stolen Draco's body, was pacing beside Hermione and Parvati's table. It was, at first, a welcome distraction, considering she and Parvati were disastrously incompatible (24% and  _it showed,_ though really, it wasn't as if Hermione hadn't predicted that; see also, the 'No, That's Not My Toothpaste,' 'No Really, It Isn't, Did You Ask Lavender,' 'I Don't See How Her Being Your Best Friend is Relevant,' 'I'm Not Talking Down to You, I'm Just Talking' Incident, 1994) and by the time Draco arrived—post-argument about whether divinatory methods were magically viable or simply self-fulfilling placebo effects (Parvati, the former; Hermione, the latter)—Hermione had long been considering the possibility of setting her table on fire and/or leaving.

After a while, though, Draco's presence progressed from distracting to strange, and then to puzzling, especially once his monologue ventured somewhere particularly mystifying. "I don't know how to tell you what I want," he said, sounding more than a small amount of frantic at the admission. "I don't know what language to do it in—really, I don't. But look, this thing? You're right, it's not logical, because it's emotional—"

_It's not logical, because it's emotional._

Somewhere inside her mind, Hermione felt something click into place. A key, or a latch. A mechanism of some kind, given to her by him, which finally permitted a long-perplexing knob to turn. For days she had been walking into the same door over and over, demanding that it open, wondering why it would not.

"—It's not logical because we're  _human_ , Granger, and we're idiots—"

_It's not logical, because it's emotional._

Well, she thought with relief, thank goodness. That explained that, and about time, too. There had been a fallacy in her calculations all along; that her feelings for Draco were inexplicable because of something she had unintentionally, or perhaps mistakenly, allowed of her own accord. She had presumed for weeks that she had been the one to err somewhere; she had run the scenarios over and over, following each moment's conceivable threads of consequence, straining to locate the precise moment things had absconded from her control. Perhaps, Hermione had thought, if she could just identify where the pieces of her mind were failing to fit pleasingly together, then she would eventually come to understand why they were not now falling smoothly into place.

It turned out the true malfeasance was a bug of some sort, which was not only not her fault, but also not within her infallible logic's control to begin with. Accidents were known to happen frequently in nature; genetics, for example, were not purely predisposition—a solid, predictable projection of evolution and probability—but were, in some cases, the result of outliers, anomalies, mutations. Chance events caused by nature, or by some other unknowable force. That was the answer she had been looking for, and for which she had forgotten to account.

Hermione had not considered that in terms of the universe, there had always been the possibility that something implausible could happen. That if everything aligned precisely in a way  _the universe itself_ intended, then there was the rare but distinct possibility she might have accidentally, by some mutation, fallen terribly and monstrously in love with Draco Malfoy.

(The irony of realizing this in front of noted kook Parvati Patil had not escaped her.)

"—and I'm asking you to… to just feel your stupid feelings with me," Draco continued, having a momentary stroke of cognitive synchronicity. "If you have them. God, fuck," he suddenly swore, "I didn't ask if you did, but—"

"I have them," Hermione said. "Go on."

She had already been aware of that much for some time, though Draco seemed to find it a temporary obstacle for his own internal calculations. Understandable. She herself was presently accounting for a number of personal misconceptions.

"You do?" he asked, seemingly bewildered.

She had wanted a reason; not for her increase in compatibility with Draco Malfoy, who by all accounts should have been someone she hated (see also: Mudblood, Front Teeth, Keep That Big Bushy Head Down, 1991-1997), but more importantly, for her own desperation for the increase. She had wanted to understand not why her estimation of him had risen (see also: Draco Malfoy's Summer of Redemption and Merciless Wreaking of Havoc on Her Unassailable State of Mind, 2002), but why had she come to want him quite so  _badly_? And now, whether unwittingly or not, he had provided her the answer she hadn't even known to look for.

The door would not open for knowing why her feelings were illogical; the door had been waiting for her to conclude what Draco already had.

_It's not logical, because it's emotional._

She could not make her feelings for Draco Malfoy make sense because they were completely nonsensical. Because, in fact, they were feelings, and they did not originate from her brain.

"It's not logical," she prompted for him, "but…?"

She wanted to hear where his personal introspections had taken him, wondering if her own conclusions ( _I, quite irrationally, might be unable to prevent myself from falling in love with you despite my best and most rigorous intentions_ ) were, in fact, the same as his. Thankfully, he did not seem to be opposed to the prospect of continuing; either that or he could not stop himself now that he had started, which was certainly a familiar sensation.

"I may not be the person you had in mind to love you," he told her, "but I swear, if you let me, I'll be the one who does it best. Maybe we'll never make sense, but I won't lie to you, I won't take you for granted, I won't try to make you smaller. I will care about you, about your thoughts and your happiness and your beliefs. I won't ask you to be anything more or less. I won't ask you to change one hair on your head, I promise—I will love you exactly as you are, and for everything you'll become. I want to be there, Granger, for everything, big things and small. I want to learn with you, to laugh and suffer and grow with you, and… and I want to be the person you fall in love with, Granger, because whoever that version of me is, and whatever he's like, if he gets to be loved by you, then fuck it. I want to be him."

So it was a choice, then, or he was making it one. Hadn't Padma said that? That feelings themselves were not enough; that even compatibility, on its own, was not enough.  _Shouldn't it make a difference_ , Padma had said,  _who we choose?_

Thus, the option remained that Hermione could  _have_  irrational feelings and decide not to indulge them; that was a choice. She could feel as grotesquely as her mutations allowed and still carry on with her life. That was one possible avenue toward conclusion.

Or—and here was where things grew more hazily speculative—she could choose to honor the theatricalities of her wilder emotions. She could decide that it did not matter where they came from or what had caused them; she could determine, conclusively, that however feelings happened to be felt was not important. The source, the cause, the reasoning, the logic… she could choose to cast those things aside. After all, she was an expert in dismissing the extraneous. Her gift had always been in identifying the crucial details of a problem, and those details, if she chose to accept them, were undeniable. She maybe loved him, and judging by his most recent expulsion of hypotheses, he maybe loved her. Historically speaking, maybes eventually resolved themselves to yeses or nos; scientifically speaking, however, they would not know unless they tried.

They could be content with the answers they had, or they could keep undertaking the necessary research. That seemed to be the crux of the thing, as far as Hermione could tell; an extended experiment, not unlike Theo's proposition to Harry of unresolved feelings requiring a gratuitous period of study. They could study each other, and themselves, into semi-perpetuity, determining only at the end whether the maybes had been worth the costs. Ultimately, then, it was up to them where they decided the end should be.

Having connected the dots, things became quite clear for Hermione: Stop, or keep going.

Before she could say anything, though, there was a small slurp from Parvati's straw.

"Well,  _damn_ , Malfoy," Parvati said, ostensibly to Draco, or possibly to herself. "That's, wow. Wow." She shook her head, impressed, and her earrings gave a jangle. "I mean, we're really not having a very good time," she said, giving Hermione a glare as if that were not equally her own fault. "She's somehow even more annoying than she was before—" (something Hermione had heard countless times) "—so you definitely did not need a whole speech. But if you really feel all that, then that's… well, it's wild, first of all, really, even I did not see it coming and I read my cards twice this morn-"

"Let's keep going," Hermione said, having made the best possible decision within the parameters of data she possessed, and Draco blinked.

"What?"

He would not understand that, of course. She was exceptionally logical and an auditory learner but Draco, on the other hand, would need to receive his explanation in some other way, and so Hermione rose to her feet, taking his face in her hands.

"I said," she repeated, "let's keep going," and in case that was not enough, she channeled it into her brush of reassurance across his cheek:  _You, for reasons logical or otherwise, are precious to me._

He seemed to have grasped the point, managing a smile, and so Hermione turned to Parvati.

"I'm going to go now," she informed her. "I'm afraid I have other places I'd like to be."

"That's the first truly clever thing you've ever said," remarked Parvati, which was not entirely polite, but at least the parting seemed to be mutual. "Good luck, I suppose, though if you'd have just let me read your cards earlier I could have told y-"

"Goodbye," Hermione said, and apparated herself and Draco out, landing with a softened thud in her bedroom.

He, it seemed, was quite eager to progress their studies, bending towards her at once, but she paused him for a moment.

"There are… some things, first," she told him. "Some caveats."

She had acknowledged silently that while she knew for certain she wanted to continue their mutual venture into whatever this was, she remained their greatest obstacle. Her mind, she suspected, would still get in the way, considering it was, as Parvati had rudely (albeit rightfully) suggested, intensely annoying that way.

Draco, perhaps understandably, looked apprehensive, though not impatient. "Caveats such as…?"

Her conclusion was simple: It would need to be a blind study.

"I have some limitations," she confessed remorsefully, finding them worth acknowledging before anything moved forward. Better, she thought, to do him the favor of providing all the necessary details, since he had done the same for her. "I'm afraid I won't be able to overlook our…" And here, already, a difficulty in phrasing. "Shortcomings," she determined. "I don't think I'm ready to tell you that the number doesn't matter to me—at least not yet." She took his wrist in hand, firmly covering the percentage with his watch. "So I'd like to move forward without knowing what our compatibility is."

He seemed both relieved and surprised; as if he'd anticipated worse, but also hadn't expected  _this_ , exactly.

"So, are you saying you're—"

"I'm sure about one thing," Hermione assured him, "which is that right now, I want to be with you. But if I know things about our future," she attempted to explain, straining to be realistic even if it pained them both, "then inevitably, no matter how I feel, I'm going to wonder about it." If she could argue that divination was self-fulfilling, then was this really any different? "I'm afraid I'm still going to postulate whether we might be making a mistake by trying something that can only fail," she began as a hypothetical exercise, "or whether eventually, there might come a day where we c-"

Draco cut her off with a kiss. It started with a seed of necessity and bloomed to something deeper, fuller, taking root in the space between them as her breath of relief filled the needy vacancy of his mouth. It was a renewed burst of revelation; that he already knew, gratifyingly, which of her thought exercises to entertain and which to stifle, and had set her meandering anxieties back on course. His face, illuminated by the glow of her desk lamp, gave him the faintest sheen of possibility, and when Hermione opened her eyes, it permitted her to find, once again, the only important detail.

Notably, that she had missed him. His face, his scent, the sweep of his tongue across her mouth. His hands tightened on her waist and she dismissed the extraneous, the irrelevant, and the unknowable.

Perhaps she more than maybe loved him.

"I think," he remarked in another odd mirror of her thoughts, "you terrify me a little bit. In a good way."

"Is there a good way to be terrified?" That was news. Already it had been an enlightening evening.

"I imagine so." He kissed her again, tugging her hair loose from its ponytail. "Terror has other connotations, depending on the derivative. Terrific, for example."

She slid his shirt from his trousers, tracing the tips of her fingers along the band of his pants until she felt his breath catch, hitching with anticipation for her intended path. "Are you trying to arouse me with linguistics, Malfoy?"

"If that's a thing, yes." He was working his hands through her hair now, easing her head back to kiss below her jaw. It seemed he was choosing to be meticulous this evening, devoting his attention to her little vulnerable spots. In top form, he was fanatical that way. "Alternatively, I could be convinced to discuss other things. Though not snakeskin, or drummers."

She paused, pulling away with confusion. "What?"

"Never mind," he said, gruffly disallowing distance.

She slid a hand around the back of his neck in acquiescent never-minding, tugging him blindly backwards until they collapsed against her bed. He landed carefully, bracing them both with his forearm before lowering her with continued fastidious attention to the duvet.

"Well, then surely you have a concept," she prompted. "Conversationally speaking, I mean." Though she would have gladly discussed the way he felt beneath his trousers. There was always a thrill when sliding her palm over the fabric to feel him pulsing beneath her touch, leaping with unsubtle—but not unwelcome—interest. As far as cocks went, his was straining, and she appreciated a man who put in work.

"Conversationally? I'd like to fuck you slowly," he said. "There should be plenty of time to address any lingering political theories you may have between now and when I make you come. And ideally," he added, laying her back to fit his hips between her thighs, "we'll solve Israel around the time I'm satisfied."

"That," she said, "is highly philanthropic of you." She bit lightly at the line of his shoulder, peeling aside the collar of his shirt to admire the bone of his clavicle, eyeing the muscle below with extravagant patience. "Your generosity astounds," she murmured, following the path to his sternum.

"I'm a very patient man, Granger. I've been known to take my time." He slid the material of her dress below one breast, baring the curve for the benefit of his tongue. "In foreplay," he remarked, observing the pebbling of her skin from the proximity of his lips, "in courting, in covert assassinations—"

"You didn't technically fulfill your contracted obligation for murder," she reminded him. He slid his teeth over the shape of her nipple in protest and she gasped, "I hope you'll take my orgasm more seriously."

He slid down, parting her thighs with the tiny, lingering brush of his pointer finger over the curves of them. "Are you saying I should have killed Dumbledore?" he asked, stroking the fabric of her knickers.

"Of course not. But if you're going to compare your efforts…"

The prospect of what he would do with his head between her legs was no longer as concerning as it once was. For one thing, Hermione had touched herself often enough to the memory of him in the days preceding this one to be assured he would find her wanting, and that the sensation of touching her would be like touching velvet; rose-red and petal-soft, temptingly slick and smooth.

He leaned forward, running his tongue over the material of her underwear and dissolving her to a shudder.

"You'll come, Granger. I'll make sure of it." He murmured the words to her clitoris, his voice a low vibration of sound, and officially, the idea he might soon pull aside the fabric and slide his tongue inside her was a relief rather than an apprehension. He loved the taste of her, so he said, and evidence suggested she should believe him. And besides, if she could be herself unapologetically from the waist up and he could still want her, then perhaps she could close her eyes and enjoy the fruits of his wanting when it came to other hemispheres.

"You'll come," he said again, inviting her to do precisely that, "and then maybe I'll let you rest before it happens a second time."

"Well, maybe I won't let you go slow," she countered, eyes floating open, and he looked up with a smile, devastating her with the customary arrogance she longed to detest more thoroughly than she did. "Maybe," she suggested, tightening her fingers in his hair when he tugged her knickers aside for his mouth, "I'll be the one to make  _you_  come, Malfoy. Had you considered that possibility?"

He sucked lightly, then with resolution, then glanced up.

"Are you sure?" he asked when she gasped, writhing a little the moment his lips met hers. "Maybe you'd prefer to let me have my way with you."

"Or," she said, managing to grit that particular sound of satisfaction between her teeth once he returned his attention to the task of stroking her with his tongue, "maybe you underestimate me. It's been a while; maybe you've forgotten."

He said something, though she missed it, distracted by the swirl of his thumb over her throbbing clit when his fingers slid inside her.

"What?"

"I said," he repeated, biting lightly at her thigh, "I haven't forgotten."

He'd keep going if she let him, delivering her once again to anticipatory whines and convulsing legs, but she had other plans. She tugged him up, rolling over him on the bed, and shoved his trousers down, just low enough to bare the cock she knew to be magnificently hard and wanting.

"Maybe not," she said, stroking him once, "though I'm happy to remind you."

"Well, maybe," he said, groaning when she slid onto him, knickers still barely pushed aside, "I want the reminder to last the night, hm?"

"Whereas maybe I want it to recur as frequently as possible." She parted what remained of his shirt with precision, button by button, and opted to ride him slowly, seeing how he liked the prospect of being made to wait. "Is what I want not important?" she mused, letting him tug her dress over her shoulders with a growl until the material surrendered its shape and sank, draping piteously around her waist.

"Maybe I already know what you want," he panted, throwing her onto her back and yanking the uselessness of fabric up past her hips; ensuring himself tangled up with her, locked inside her. "And maybe I won't stop until you have it."

Maybes, as she knew, often turned into yeses, but there was only one way to find out.

"Draco," she said in his ear, approval enough for the time being, and he shivered, finding her lips blindly, to curl one hand hungrily around her face.

His watch was slightly in the way. The corner of it drove into her cheek with a pinprick of discomfort, but the distraction was merely… What was the word? She couldn't quite think of it, though it existed on the tip of her otherwise occupied tongue.

'Extraneous' certainly came to mind.

"Hermione," Draco choked to her mouth, and then she discarded the inconsequence of thinking. It was enough to suspect that the climax, at whatever pace it arrived, would be a rather pleasing compromise.

* * *

Draco thought perhaps love, or the approximation of it that this may or may not have been, would be something resembling a series of thrills. Highs and lows, pulses racing and collapsing; the plummeting sensation of disappointment mixing in with windows of contentment, and then spiking again where it came to anger and desire and, most obviously, sex. There had always been something adversarial about it to him; that love was, or should have been, a battle of some kind. Something he could—though he most often didn't—conceivably win.

Instead it was lazy, almost sluggish with infatuation, filling his stomach and his chest and his mind with a drowsy ray of something too tranquil to be suspicious. He thought it would feel like mania, like confessing to her had been, but instead it was something slightly softer, engorging in its dominance; a sort of lunacy that felt more like productivity than intoxication. It was a series of wild ideas (truly unsettling) like finding himself in her office with food in hand, simply to make sure she was never wanting. It was listening to her talk so he could collect her thoughts in his mind for himself, counting them like raindrops, like newfound possessions. He started waking up earlier, just to make the days a little longer. To be certain his time was filled, from dawn to dusk, with crystalline instances of her.

Which was perhaps why, a week or two later, he had agreed to go with her on the final day of Bastien Queensbury's very public lawsuit; not merely the transactional process of depositions and filings, but the Wizengamot trial regarding Bastien's claim of emotional distress and financial losses incurred as a direct result of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. Draco had heard, somewhere in his fog of Newly Very Real Relationship, that Theo Nott had agreed to be George's counsel on the advice of Weasley Industries' unknown silent partner—undetermined as of yet whether that decision was  _itself_  an absurd Wizard Wheeze, and/or the consequence of naturally occurring self-destructive tendencies—and that Pansy and Percy, newly returned from their honeymoon, had agreed to be placed on a list of possible witnesses called to testify in the charm's defense.

Draco, however, had not looked at his own percentible (Hermione had offered, insisting that her problems need not remain his, but of course he refused; if she wasn't going to know their compatibility then  _he_  wasn't, either, and she now wore a silk scarf tied around her wrist that Padma had allegedly said was fashionable) and did not care what became of either George Weasley or  _Meant 4 Me_ , wanting only to be near Hermione because she had asked.

He spotted her in one of the audience seats in the chamber's front row. Not very difficult; for one thing, he had looked at her often enough to spot her in any crowd, and for another she was bearing her usual  _Daily Prophet_  press badge and frowning slightly, motioning for her quill to take notes on various details about the procedure. Draco slipped through the crowd, taking the seat she'd marked beside her, and tried not to become painfully swollen with the knowledge it had been reserved specifically for him.

"Oh, there you are," she said, having apparently grown concerned about his welfare given his two minute delay. "I was wondering whether you'd be called away for a case this morning."

"I was," he admitted, as that did serve to explain the two minutes he had thoroughly wasted in existence elsewhere. "But someone else will handle it."

She turned to look at him, brow furrowed. "Will they?"

"I presume so, Granger. Why wouldn't they?" he prompted. "I'm not an Obliviator, and I'm hardly the department's foremost magical accident chaser. Not to subscribe to vicious rumors, but I seem to relentlessly hear of the Ministry taking it upon themselves to persevere in my absence."

"Still, it doesn't bother you, just… leaving?"

He shrugged. "Why should it? It's not as if today will be the day the muggle world suddenly discovers there are wizards living among them just because I called in sick. Or if it is," he permitted, "that certainly seems like the department's problem."

For a moment, there was a brief flicker of something over her face.

"Mm," she said conclusively, which was neither illuminating nor even a real word.

"Mm what?"

There was a brisk bang of the gavel to announce the entry of the presiding Warlock, and Hermione reached over, threading her fingers through Draco's.

"Nothing," she said, and kissed his cheek. "Now budge over," she said, releasing him. "You know I need room for my quill."

Respectfully, Draco budged, observing that George Weasley was once again dressed in offensively purple robes and an enormously inappropriate top hat. Beside him, Theo appeared to have chosen one of Harry Potter's wrinkled shirts for the occasion, and possibly also his glasses.

The first witness, called forth by the plaintiff, was Bastien's Queensbury's personal therapist. Theo made relatively quick work of it, hardly bothering to cross-examine him. Then Bastien himself spoke, waxing poetic about his feelings and tossing his fashionably long hair from his angsting eyes, along with another some-sort of professional somesuch—though again, it appeared Theo was perfectly unwilling to acknowledge that anything happening had stakes of any sort, much less multi-million galleon ones. His obvious indifference (an occasional refusal to stand, or to ask questions like, "So, this guy, huh?" before dismissing the witness) was either a brilliant legal tactic or a bizarre gamble, though Draco observed upon the conclusion of the first half of the trial that Theo appeared to have finally come to life.

"The defense would like to call as their first witness Miss Lily Moon," Theo announced, which explained the size of the surprisingly large crowd. At the back of the room, Draco caught the motion of Padma Patil slipping inside the chambers, a  _Witch Weekly_  press correspondent at her side. He frowned, about to mention it to Hermione, but he could see her thoughts were solidly elsewhere, focused instead on Lily's willowy form rising to the stand.

"Miss Moon," Theo said. "Would you please state your name and occupation for the Wizengamot's records?"

"Lily Moon," replied Lily. "I'm a singer and songwriter."

"Prolifically, aren't you?"

"Yes, I suppose you could say that."

"Isn't it true you currently hold the record for most consecutive weeks at the top of the wizarding pop charts, Miss Moon?"

"Currently, yes."

"As well as the artist with the most singles ever to reach number one in a single year?"

"Yes."

"And the highest grossing single album sales?"

"Tied, actually," Lily said. "With Celestina Warbeck's Christmas album."

"Well, naturally," Theo said, exchanging a glance with the presiding Warlock, who indeed looked like the sort of man who took great pleasure in Celestina Warbeck's Christmas album. "And was your most recent U.K. tour not the highest grossing solo tour of all time, Miss Moon?"

"Numbers are still coming in. But it appears so, yes," said Lily. Draco, observing her notable lack of braggadocio, suspected another artist possessing those accolades—say, for example, Bastien Queensbury—might not have answered the same question in such a humble tone.

"Not the highest solo  _female_  artist," Theo clarified, holding up Hermione's most recent  _Daily Prophet_ article about Lily's tour. "But the highest earning overall. Is that correct?"

"Yes, that's correct," said Lily, with an expressionless glance at Bastien.

"Thank you, Miss Moon. Your Honor, I'd like to submit this into evidence," Theo said, as the lawyer for Bastien Queensbury rose swiftly to his feet.

"Your Honor, objection," called the plaintiff's lawyer.

"For what?" prompted the Warlock, motioning for Theo to bring him the article. "It's a periodical, Counselor, having nothing to do with your client. One can hardly call it hearsay."

"Well, it's… irrelevance!" the lawyer accused. "Where is this line of questioning going, if not to make my client appear unsavory in the eyes of the court?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," Theo said, looking again as if he had never, in fact, been less sorry, and perhaps did not even know what the phrase was intended to mean. "Does your client consider Miss Moon's success to have invalidated his case in some way?"

The lawyer stopped, looking trapped, and glanced at Bastien. "I—"

"I beg your pardon, allow me to retract that and rephrase," Theo said, begging absolutely nothing as he did so. "Does the fact that Miss Moon is more successful than your client contribute in any way to your objection?"

"I wasn't—Your Honor," the plaintiff insisted, "the point remains that—"

"Move along, Counsel," the Warlock warned Theo, accepting Hermione's article into evidence. "The plaintiff's objection is overruled, but make your point."

"Technically, I just made it," Theo said, "but if you insist. Miss Moon," he continued, turning back to Lily as Hermione, from the corner of Draco's eye, allowed a satisfied smile to traipse across her lips. "Are you in love with Bastien Queensbury?"

"No," she said.

"Wonderful, then the defense rests—"

"Wait," came a voice, followed by the surprising motion of George Weasley, who beckoned Theo towards him. After a moment of murmuring between the two of them, Theo nodded, then turned back to Lily.

"Miss Moon, one more question," he said. "Do you have any opinions on grand romantic gestures?"

Briefly, a flicker of obvious confusion shadowed her face. "Well, I never cared for Mr Queensbury's attempts at them," she carefully demurred. "His writing a song about me is sort of why we're here."

Hermione's quill, Draco observed, scribbled something that looked an awful lot like  _COUNTERSUE THE BASTARD FOR DEFAMATION!_  on her notepad, though she didn't indulge any particularly volatile expressions.

"Well, say someone had no particular musical talent," Theo suggested blithely. "What then?"

"I didn't enjoy the constant delivery of flowers much, either," Lily said, "or the breaking into my dressing room to confess his affections. In general I prefer not to be cornered or otherwise threatened by my romantic partners."

"Objection!" shouted Bastien's lawyer. "Prejudicial against my client!"

"Sustained," said the Warlock, ostensibly in agreement. "Mr Nott, your point?"

A familiar question, Draco thought, though he doubted this Warlock would have much more luck than any other human being on earth.

"Fine, fine. Assuming there's someone you like who also likes you," Theo said to Lily, sounding a bit like he was reading aloud from the Valentine Pansy had sent Draco in fourth year—that one, of course, being  _far_  more militant, and bearing a dangerous underlying threat against rebuttal—"would you be opposed to his attempting to win you over in a grand, romantic, or otherwise gesturing sort of way?"

"I…" Lily frowned. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Not me," Theo hastily assured her. "I find you, you know. Highly talented, but… mleh," he said, which seemed to be an explanation, or at least a sound made with the intent to serve as one. "You know what? Never mind," he told her. "We'll come back to this."

"Oh," she said. "Okay… wait, so am I done?"

"You're done," Theo assured her.

"Wait," the counsel for the plaintiff said, "I have questi-"

"No, you don't," Theo retorted, turning swiftly on his heel. "What's your name? Richard? Great," he determined, approaching the plaintiff's table. "May I call you Dick?"

"It's Michael," said the lawyer.

"Dick, listen," Theo said. "You really don't want to cross-examine Miss Moon. And do you know why? Because every word out of her mouth will only serve to discredit your client  _on record_ , so in the end you'll be wasting all our time."

The lawyer, who was at least twenty years older than Theo and surely more credentialed, frowned for a moment, a little taken aback by the salience of his point. "But I—"

"I'm telling you this as a friend, Dick," Theo advised. "Don't do it."

"Counsel," the Warlock interjected, "I assure you, you are not allowed to tell the plaintiff what to do."

"It's a suggestion," Theo insisted, leaning casually against the plaintiff's table to prove it. "I'm being friendly."

At the back of the room, Draco heard a sigh belonging to what he was pretty sure was an aggrieved Auror who was currently missing his glasses.

"Counsel," the Warlock said, addressing the plaintiff's lawyer this time, "would you like to cross-examine the witness?"

"Um." The lawyer glanced at Theo, who solemnly shook his head. "Er, no, thank you."

"Excellent. Then the defense calls George Weasley," announced Theo, straightening to beckon him up to the stand. "Oh, but Miss Moon?" he called with a sudden recollection, pausing her before she made her way back through the chambers. "Stay, please. If you wouldn't mind."

She gave a bemused sort of half-frown, but nodded, taking a seat at the edge of one of the chamber's benches while George was sworn in.

"Mr Weasley," Theo said. "Your name and occupation?"

"George Weasley," confirmed George. "Entrepreneur, inventor, man about town, and ruiner of lives."

"Allegedly," Theo qualified.

"Hm? Oh, no, it's real," said George. "This particular case happens to be an allegation, but in general—"

"Understood. So, Mr Weasley," Theo continued. "What exactly is the purpose of this charm?"

"To provide certainty in a world of uncertainty," George said. "Specifically, to allow those seeking love to find some clarity while seeking it."

"I see. And what do you think of Bastien Queensbury's allegations that your charm, along with his 91% compatibility with Lily Moon at the time of their breakup, caused him to consider you responsible for his recent misfortunes?"

"Objection!" said the lawyer for the plaintiff.

"Are you sure?" Theo asked, glancing at him. "Think it over, Dick."

"I…" Dick, who was apparently Michael, albeit not anymore, frowned. "The scope of the question is a bit broad."

"That's true," Theo allowed, encouragingly. "But we're going to get around to it anyway."

"Yes," Dick said, visibly torn, "but the phrasing—"

"Counsel," the Warlock called to Dick with a grimace. "Despite his belief to the contrary, the defense does not actually have the ability to reason privately with you in my chambers. What is your objection?"

"Uh." Dick stopped, glancing again at Theo, who arched a brow. "No objection," he mumbled, busying himself with his pocket square as his cheeks turned moderately flushed.

"Mr Weasley?" Theo prompted George, pivoting towards him.

"Oh, right, me. Well, the charm told Queensbury they were compatible, that's true," George acknowledged. "And they probably are—or  _were_ , anyway, until he became the sort of bloke who drags the woman he claims to love through the mud, and she became the sort of bird who doesn't particularly care for the dragging. Queensbury's conclusion is understandable, but the charm doesn't make decisions for him. He made those for himself."

"So the charm does not have any  _Imperius_ -like qualities, then?" Theo prompted. "It could not, for example, have forced the plaintiff to purchase flowers for Miss Moon and deliver them to her dressing room despite her outright request for time and space?"

Briefly, Dick looked pained, determining whether he wished to object for so long that his window for objection came and went.

"No," George said, "it has no hypnotic effects."

"Could the  _Meant 4 Me_  charm have somehow purchased the flowers of its own accord?"

"No," George said. "The charm has no motor functions or motives at all. And certainly no viable financial backing."

"The charm didn't write the song about her?"

"No. No compositional capabilities, musical or otherwise."

"So what  _is_  the charm, Mr Weasley?"

"It's a calculation," George said. "That's it."

"Can it manipulate data?"

"No. It only collects and compiles it."

"Does it have any other amorous qualities? Stupefaction, or otherwise mind-altering effects, such as those attributed to the potion Amortentia?"

"No."

"Does it have divinatory attributes?"

"Not necessarily." A pause. "Actually, no," George corrected himself. "No, it doesn't. It doesn't predict anything, it just makes a conclusion as things are."

"So it's just a number," Theo concluded. "Is that right?"

"Yes," George confirmed. "It's just a number."

Draco glanced at Hermione, who looked thoughtful.

"What about the psychological effects?" Theo pressed. "Could someone reasonably make decisions based on the number the charm provides?"

"Reasonably? Yes," George said. "Though I don't believe the plaintiff acted reasonably."

Briefly, Theo glanced over his shoulder. "Object," he mouthed to Dick, who leapt to his feet.

"Objection!" he shouted.

"For what?" the Warlock sighed.

"For…" Dick glanced at Theo. "Um, well—?"

"Your Honor, I hardly think an objection is necessary here," Theo supplied coolly. "The plaintiff opened the door for this line of questioning when he insisted upon his own reasonable action during his earlier testimony."

Dick, affronted, gave Theo an injured look, though Draco was impressed Theo had been listening to Bastien's testimony to begin with.

"Overruled," the Warlock agreed. "Please continue, Mr Weasley."

"Well, that's basically it," George said with a shrug. "Sure, the idea was always that you'll inevitably act on what the charm tells you— _in some way_. Say, for example, that you meet a pretty girl at a wedding," he posed, glancing at Lily, who looked up at him at that precise moment, her puzzlement turning rapidly to curiosity. "Say you think well, she's certainly beautiful, and it turns out she's funny and a bit saucy, too, in addition to being unreasonably gifted at her craft, and then you happen to notice she's an 87% match with you. I would think, then, the reasonable reaction is to presume you might have something more than nothing in common, and thus you might take it upon yourself to find out—to suggest, for example, that maybe if she has the time, you'd like to take her out for dinner. Continuing the hypothetical," George went on, "say that she mentioned, over the course of the conversation during which you first observed your compatibility, that she hasn't been in London for a bit and misses home. Perhaps you might suggest you take her somewhere familiar, where you can have a pint in private and possibly make her laugh, as you now desperately, embarrassingly wish to."

George, still 'postulating' aloud, continued, "It would  _not_ , however, be reasonable to insist that you and she are meant for each other. Sure, you may have your private inclinations that such a thing might be true," he permitted with another sly glance at Lily, "but those can certainly remain private, just as they would if you did not share such a high percentage of compatibility. The difference is not the choice of action, but the possibility of its result. The magic of the charm is that now, knowing what you know, you won't allow the chance to know her simply slip away. The enchantment isn't that you'll  _definitively_  live happily ever after," George concluded, "but that you can now live in a world where the possibility exists that you might."

Draco glanced at Hermione for a moment, blinking when he realized she was already looking at him.

 _What?_ he mouthed.

 _Nothing,_  she said, returning her attention to her notes.

Across the room, Lily smiled, and George winked. Then he shrugged, returning his attention to Theo. "If what I just described is not magical enough for Mr Queensbury," George said, "then I'm sorry to say that in my capacity as magical entrepreneur, I have robbed him indeed. On the count of financial loss, I'm happy to reimburse him for the value of the charm in full, as it appears that his money was, in fact, wasted. I will also gladly add a clarification to the charm's advertising, specific to Mr Queensbury's emotional distress, to be sure that such a thing never happens again," George offered graciously, though Draco was fairly certain it would read something along the lines:  _This charm cannot actually make someone love you, you smarmy idiot prick._

"Well, I think that's fair," Theo said. "The full cost of the charm as restitution for the plaintiff's disappointment sounds like a perfectly good settlement figure. Don't you think, Dick?"

Dick, of course, was by then too confused to answer.

"Fine," the Warlock said, slamming down the gavel. "Sit down, Mr Weasley, and I'll hand down my ruling."

"Very cool of you, sir," said George, who leapt easily down from the stand, aiming a glance of malevolent amusement toward Bastien Queensbury before sauntering back to his seat.

"Mr Weasley will pay the plaintiff, Mr Queensbury, the cost of the enchantment in full, in compensation for his losses," announced the Warlock, slamming the gavel a final time. "Case dismissed."

"But I didn't kiss anyone," huffed Pansy.

"Nor did I," lamented Theo.

"Give me my glasses back," said Harry, who had materialized beside the defense table.

"Pansy, wait until we get home," Percy advised, and then, thinking better of it, "or at least until we get to my office."

"Never," said Theo and Pansy in unison, taking hold of their respective desires by force.

"Well, here you go," George said, rising to his feet to toss Bastien a single galleon, which the rockstar caught with a cinematic scowl. "Waste not, want not," George advised, and then approached Lily Moon, politely holding out a hand for hers.

She offered it to him, smiling, and George bent his head, genially brushing his lips across her knuckles. "I noticed you are very pretty and talented," he remarked, glancing up at her. "I'm rather pretty and talented myself."

"To answer your lawyer's question, I like my romantic gestures small," Lily said. "Call me unromantic, but I find a lot more value in a man who shows up than in one who sends flowers."

"Well, there's a 13% chance I disagree, but for you I think I'd change my mind," said George.

Draco, who was fairly certain that was going to work itself out relatively easily, turned to Hermione, who was looking thoughtful. She peered into nothing, squinting for a moment, and then scribbled something else down on her notepad, turning back to him.

"That was interesting. I hope Nott has some time available," she added as an afterthought, "as I'd really like to bring a few more cases to his attention."

A coincidental, "Lawyer up, Queensbury, we're coming for your drumsticks," came from elsewhere in the chamber, and Draco sighed.

"You realize that if Nott continues lawyering he'll eventually be eligible for appointment to the Wizengamot," Draco said. "Are you prepared for your contribution to any resulting societal doom?"

Hermione shrugged. "I trust his judgment."

"Even if the evidence suggests otherwise?"

"Actually, the evidence is the only thing suggesting I should," she said with a frown. "Everything else remains questionable, my instincts included."

True enough, but still. "You know, I am  _also_ highly educated," Draco grumbled, and Hermione reached out with a sigh, touching her thumb to his cheek.

"I know," she said, "and actually, I rather think you're wasting all that intellect on something that brings you almost no pleasure whatsoever." She leaned forward, kissing his cheek, and removed her lipstick from his skin with a brush of her thumb. "See you later?"

He loathed how sickly sweet it felt, the possibility of it. The saccharinity of knowing he would, in fact, see her later. It was heavily, oppressively wonderful, like sinking carelessly into some nameless oblivion of starlight, or warming himself in the fading vestiges of late summer sun.

"Of course. I love you," he added without thinking, and then stopped, frozen, to contemplate for a moment whether it would be in his immediate best interest to find a convenient place to drown.

She, however, seemed perfectly unaffected by his admission, sparing him a brief, delicately furrowed glance of acknowledgement before becoming absorbed once again in her notepad.

"And I love you," Hermione replied, as factually as if he had commented on the weather, or possibly on the state of the wizarding economy; which was something she, at least, could have addressed with facts.

And it filled him with elation so positively gruesome he felt certain he would burst.

* * *

Hours prior to George's trial, Padma had stormed into Hermione's office—literally. In her wake was a tiny trail of sparks, miniaturized bolts of lightning from each of her raging footsteps, and to that observation, Hermione could only think… yes. Yes, I understand. She did not require details to know that whatever Padma currently felt had been suffered by a previous version of herself, though she anticipated an explanation would soon make itself clear.

"I wrote something," Padma announced without pause for invitation, dropping a file atop Hermione's desk with a flimsy plunk. "A longer version of the piece about the corruption leading up to the arrests in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The Warlocks, but also the evidence power imbalances have left behind. Gladys, for example," she said, gesturing brusquely behind her to where Hermione's receptionist remained translucently undead, "who was almost certainly victimized by one of your male predecessors. Female Warlocks who tried to come forward with details about their colleagues," she enumerated on her fingers, "but who were denied promotions or actively demoted as a result. Women who stood on the outskirts of power."

With a sinking feeling, Hermione guessed, "And Dauntless wouldn't print it?"

"DAUNTLESS. WOULDN'T. PRINT. IT," Padma confirmed, slamming a fist down on Hermione's desk before falling into the seat opposite hers, slinking down in the chair. "Said it harmed our Ministry benefactors," she muttered, though it was difficult to hear from behind both of her hands.

"But journalism is designed to check politics," Hermione said, frowning. "That's your department's primary job."

"That's what I said!" Padma growled, parting her fingers to glance at Hermione with something that looked like a wince. "Sorry, I know you know that, but—"

"No, by all means. Shout," Hermione beckoned with a shrug. "You wouldn't be the first to lose your temper over something these editors decided. Certainly not the first in this office," she pointed out, "and I highly doubt you'll be the last."

Padma, rubbing her temple with continued irritation, flipped open the file she'd tossed onto Hermione's desk with a wandless motion of her hands.

"Read that," she said, levitating a letter as Hermione leaned forward to take hold of it. The owl was embossed with, of all things, a  _Witch Weekly_  seal.

 _Dear Ms Patil,_  the letter read,  _Perhaps you may find this an unusual offer, but we at Witch Weekly have noticed the excellent work you've done in your capacity as Chief Ministry Correspondent at the Daily Prophet. As we are desperately in need of a managing editor for our own department of political affairs, we are approaching you in order to request—_

"It's a job offer," Hermione realized, looking up with a stunned frown. "They want you to be…?"

"On the editorial staff," Padma confirmed. "They want me for political news, but the majority of their editorial staff is set to retire in the next two years. It's a fast track to editor in chief."

Hermione blinked. "But—"

"It's  _Witch Weekly_ , I know," Padma acknowledged with a grimace, "but as far as I know, the Ministry has no control over what they print."

"But their readers are—"

"Women," Padma said. "An older demographic, but still. We could change that."

"But I didn't even know they had politics—"

"Neither did I. But I read what they've got, and their writers aren't stupid," Padma said, flipping open a copy of the magazine from the file and sliding it across the table to Hermione. "Two years is plenty of time to turn a demographic around. Or hell, maybe I won't bother," she said with another flare of temper, folding her arms over her chest. "Why is the  _Prophet_  taken seriously, anyway? Just because it's written for an audience of politically conservative men? Fuck that," she snapped, rendered unusually uncouth in her distress. "I'm taking the meeting with  _Witch Weekly_."

"You are?"

"I'll pitch them my most controversial stuff," Padma assured her. "Every idea I've had that Dauntless turned down, I'll pitch it, just to see how they react."

Hermione flipped the page, wincing as she arrived at a spread about Lily Moon's behind-the-scenes fashion choices. "This is the publication that tore Lily to shreds, you know."

"It's mismanaged," Padma said. "It caters to the lowest common denominator."

"But if that's the demographic who pays for its publication…?"

"I'm willing to bet it isn't. Or at least it doesn't have to be."

"But Padma—"

"Listen, I'm not saying it's perfect, and I'm not saying I'll take the job—but if I do," Padma said, sitting up. "I want you to come with me."

The idea that she would leave the only legitimate journalistic source in the wizarding world was something of a blow to Hermione's sensibilities. "What?"

"You're a better writer than I am," Padma said. "Your pieces hit hard and fast. They're unputdownable, and that's the kind of writing I want on prominent display."

"But—"

"You could write whatever you wanted," Padma assured her. "I know your judgment, I trust it. And if someone comes after you for anything you write, I'll protect you. Tell me you know that," she added, seeming to truly implore Hermione for the first time. "Tell me you believe that I'll stand up for you better than Dauntless or any other editor ever will."

The idea that the alternative could be true was unthinkable. "Of course I know that."

"Then think about it." Padma glanced at the clock, rising to her feet. "I know you've got to cover the  _Meant 4 Me_  trial," she added, "so I won't keep you. But just, you know—"

"Padma," Hermione said warily. "Are you sure y-"

"No," Padma said. "No, I'm not sure, but Hermione, come on. Look at your life," she said, leaning forward to brace herself on the desk. "Is this the life you wanted? Look five years down the line—ten, fifteen years. Is it still what you want then? I know you know how to run the scenarios," Padma remarked drily, leaving the file behind for Hermione to look through, "so run them. Sort out what you want the rest of your life to look like, and then tell me how you plan to get from here to there," she finished, and left the room, departing with the swish of her fashionable trousers and leaving Hermione to stare after her with a frown.

The rest of the day passed with little to no fanfare. George negotiated a fairly interesting settlement—a notable one, at the very least, which would make the perfect conclusion to her article—and Theo was going to make an excellent candidate for a series of lawsuits Hermione had in mind, most notably from the article Dauntless had declined to publish. Clearly, Padma wanted chaos; Theo, then, had already established himself as the perfect agent, though they would need to find someone who could keep him in check.

There had been one instance of minimal fanfare, of course. Draco, who was not yet having the career crisis Hermione hoped he would very soon have, had said I love you for the first time, which was really quite a leap for him. Hermione had already known as much about his affections, and had told him the same in a variety of ways—hence, she presumed, his being lured into accidentally confessing it. Admittedly, it was nice not having to worry about him; there was a sense of security now where there had previously been fountains of doubt. Now, it was something easily mistakable for the feeling of completion, only it was more like she had found something that made her stand taller, and perhaps shine brighter. It made the world a little bit easier to understand, and the fact that Draco felt it, too, was not so much miraculous or complex as it was gratifyingly simple, and therefore perfectly satisfying.

It was romantic, really, how uncomplicated he had made things for her, a person who seemed to regularly stumble upon complications. Hermione could not have wished for anything else, and so for once, it was not Draco who plagued her. Instead, the knowledge of loving him had settled comfortably around her, and it was a feeling she suspected she wore rather well.

"So," Harry said, pausing in her door frame with a notable absence of Theo, who had been all but attached to what Hermione lamented to say was not necessarily Harry's hip. "Did you decide how you wanted to frame the article?"

Yes. Though that wasn't what was bothering her.

"Is your life how you wanted it to look?" Hermione asked Harry instead, turning to look at him from where she'd been sifting through her abominable tross of thoughts. "I mean… your job, everything with Nott—"

"I suppose I never really thought about how I wanted my life to look." Harry wandered inside to perch at the edge of her bed, considering it for the first time. "I really thought I was going to die before I was seventeen, so—"

"Still," Hermione sighed. "You must have imagined something."

"Well, it certainly wasn't this," he assured her, with something of a scoff. "I mean Nott's… Nott," he said, which would not have been particularly revelatory if not for the soupy look of devotion on his face, "but the rest…" A shrug. "I thought it would be better with Dawlish gone, but it isn't. Now it's just paperwork."

She managed half a smile. "No thrills?"

"No thrills," he confirmed, morose at the lack of imminent harm. "Though I suppose not everything can be hunting Voldemort."

"What does Ron think?"

"About being an Auror? I think he's fine with it." A pause. "Though, I think he always wanted different things," Harry admitted. "I think, to him, surviving the war meant having the right to never worry again. But for me," he began, and then, with a sidelong glance at her, "Well, for  _us_ ," he clarified with a look of cheerful conspiracy, "we're just useless if we're not fighting for something."

It struck her as a valid point, albeit mildly unsettling. Unfortunately, she had not come to any conclusions of note until Dauntless called her in for a meeting, following the completion of her  _Meant 4 Me_ article.

"This," Dauntless announced, "is great. This thing about why Weasley created the charm, and how his enchantment subverts the relative  _dis_ -enchantment of an entire generation? Fantastic, beautiful, well done. Pop culture really gave you a lot of the sensitivity your political articles lacked," he added, ostensibly congratulating himself on his fine work in upending the trajectory of her investigative journalism career. "You seem really in touch with the human factor in this piece. I know you were unhappy about your appointment to this department, Hermione, but I think it fair to say this was all for the best."

Not that he had provided her guidance over the course of her alleged 'growth.' Nor had he offered her any resources. He had simply moved her to the side because she couldn't be sacked without it making the gossip pages, and he had clearly spent the summer living on the obscure hope that things would magically turn out for the best.

"Well, if that's all," Hermione said warily, turning to leave, but Dauntless stopped her.

"Hey, listen," he called. "The editorial staff is thinking of cutting Patil loose as Ministry correspondent. She's not really a team player," he provided with a shrug. "And you know, you've got the stronger narrative voice, so—"

"Are you offering me her job?" Hermione asked. She would have preferred to make him address the point directly, perhaps needling him while she did it, but unfortunately she did not have all day.

"The job should have been yours to begin with," Dauntless said unhelpfully. "You're the strongest young writer on staff, and besides, you're Hermione Granger. Not to mention you're a war hero, so—"

"Padma Patil withstood a year at Hogwarts under the Carrows," Hermione said. "She refused to torture students under threat of torture herself, and she also helped people escape Voldemort during the Battle of Hogwarts."

"I'm not saying she's not a hero in her own way," Dauntless offered hastily. "I'm just saying in terms of everything that's going on, it would be good to have someone a little more… on the Ministry's side. You know," he said with a flick of his wrist, "what with the Warlocks being apprehended by Potter, if we could have someone else from the Golden Trio covering political news—"

Obviously he knew Padma planned to leave. Either that, or Padma had said no enough times that he no longer wanted to put up with her.

"You know, it's interesting," Hermione said. "Someone recently advised that I consider how I want my life to look, and then determine how I want to get from here to there. It seems so simple, doesn't it? Chief Ministry Correspondent for the  _Daily Prophet_ ," she told Dauntless, who smiled, relieved. "First female journalist to receive the Order of Merlin. Then a book deal. Then several book deals."

"I love that journey for you," Dauntless said, but Hermione wasn't finished.

"You know what else is on that journey for me, Sherwood? An editor I respect. Colleagues whose contributions are valued. I certainly don't want to be the big fish if the pond in question is a revolting cesspool of corruption, and I don't want to be the only hero standing tall. Ten years from now, I want someone to  _share_  my success, and I want—"

She broke off, frowning suddenly in thought.

Then, having come unexpectedly to an unassailable conclusion, she decided she could no longer stand to wait.

"Hermione," Dauntless said, frowning after her as she went. "Hermione?"

But he, she reasoned, ought to get comfortable with women not having time for him. She may not have believed in divination, but she had a prophetic feeling it was about to happen quite a lot.

* * *

Draco had been in the middle of finishing up his final dreadful report about a group of teenagers who had made a muggle town unsearchable on any GPS systems for, quote, "funsies" when Hermione suddenly materialized in front of his desk, startling him into dropping a yogurt on his lap. She, without hesitation, vanished the evidence of it, then frowned.

"I suppose I assumed you had an office," she said, glancing around at the five or six other Ministry drones who worked alongside him. "Do you all just… share this space?"

"Yes," Draco said, gesturing around. "It delights us. There's a real sense of unity to our lack of opulence."

The witch beside him, a forty-something woman named Magda who rarely spoke outside of a perfunctory hello upon arriving followed by a farewell upon departing home to feed her mutinous children, glared at him.

"Come on," Draco said, guiding Hermione to one of the office's badly-lit meeting rooms to speak in private. "Is everything alright?" he asked, closing the door behind them. "I expected you to be at work."

"I am. Well, I was. Well—" She broke off. "I wanted to ask you something," she said, and then, thinking better of it, she amended, "Actually, I wanted to tell you something."

"Okay." He was… moderately concerned, on a scale of mildly to very. "Well, do it with some urgency, please. No sense leaving me to wonder," he advised, "unless what you wanted to tell me is that you intend for me to suffer."

"Actually, I want to know what our percentible is," she said, and he blinked.

"What?"

"Our percent compatibility," she clarified, as if that was even remotely where his confusion had been.

"Granger," he sighed, "I don't know if—"

"The thing is," she interrupted, "Padma asked me to picture my future life, because she wants me to leave my job at the  _Prophet_  and come write for her at  _Witch Weekly_ —"

He blinked, startled. "What?"

"—but I couldn't actually picture anything at first. Not really. I thought I'd see the Order of Merlin somewhere, or my books lining the shelf of a rather serviceable flat—"

"These are your… aspirations? I can't tell if they're too high or too low, honestly—"

"—but actually, all I saw was you," she said, and then Draco stopped, because that felt like something actually quite remarkable.

Something, actually, upon which to urgently remark, though all he managed was, "Me?"

"Yes, you." She considered him for a wistful moment. "I'm not looking for the perfect person, Malfoy. I didn't see it before, but I understand now."

She took a step closer, reaching out for his hand.

"What I want," she said, "is someone to grow with. Someone to change with, to fight with, because I'm certainly not perfect. Not even close." She turned his hand over for a moment, running her thumb along the shape of his palm. "I'm just a regular person looking for the perfect life," she murmured, "and everything about life with you, for me, is perfect."

He had every intention to fight her on her request to see their compatibility percentage. He had been happy not knowing what it was; the idea that she was saying all these things was blissful, euphorically so, and he did not want to chance the possibility that whatever she found on his wrist was enough to convince her otherwise.

"Are you—" He swallowed, watching her brush a kiss to the center of his palm, right where Professor Trelawney had told them (see also: Useless Until It Isn't, 1993) that the evidence of a person's heart could be found. "Are you sure?"

"That's the thing," Hermione said. "I don't need to be sure. I just want to be with you."

That did it. He was going to burst. He was going to love her so much and so gladly it would tear his disastrous heart in two, and he'd be damned if he was going to let George Weasley's bloody charm ruin the perfection or the gore of his imminent, beatific death.

"Hermione, listen. I really think we should just—"

But then she did it, the tricky minx. She stole Theo's watch right off his wrist, reducing him to fearful silence.

"There," she said. "Was that so bad?"

She slid her fingers around the 54%, smiling down at it even when his breath hitched with a mix of dismay and disbelief.

"Highest you've ever been with someone, isn't it?" she observed.

He swallowed. "Yes."

"And that's an increase of…" Pause for calculation. "200% over three months."

"Yes."

But would it be enough? He felt her next pause like he'd been dangled over a cliff in the pulse of silence; just teetering on a rope, waiting for impact.

"Well, then just imagine," Hermione said, "what we could do with a lifetime."

She looked up, her eyes finding his, and he realized with an absurd sense of pride in her that she really meant it. She was sure, really and truly. She had gone from needing proof of concept for everything in her life to gambling her entire happiness on him, and that meant it was his turn to say something worth saying.

He was not going to let her down. He was going to tell her he loved her until she got tired of hearing it, begging him to please god, Malfoy, shut up. He was going to fight all her battles with her whether she asked him to or not; until she said I can handle it and he said I know you can but I'm here anyway, if you ever need me, even if you don't. Wherever she was going, whatever she was saying, he was going to be there. If it killed him in the end, he would side with her regardless. She had done as much just by choosing him.

Unfortunately, what actually came out of Draco mouth was, "Magda's watching," because he certainly could not kiss Hermione the way he wanted to while catching the two narrowed eyes on the other side of the room's window.

"Oh." Hermione turned over her shoulder, frowning, and then turned back to him. "Well, I suppose I can see you tonight. I think it's possible I'm going to have to quit my job," she sighed, "given that I think I'm going to punch Dauntless in the jaw if I have to spend one more day as his subordinate, and—"

Oh, to hell with Magda.

Draco bent his head, pulling Hermione's lips to his and inhaling the luxury of the moment before they touched. "I want it," he said to the now-familiar affluence of her proximity. "All of it," he assured her, and then she met his kiss, and they both understood what he had offered.

The lifetime, he meant.

The gamble.

Whatever percentage would next appear.

Their probable future of temporary unemployment, since he had definitely been in the midst of quitting his job, which he had not necessarily told her yet.

(Good thing he was mostly still independently wealthy.)

When his arm tightened around her waist and it became clear they were about to seriously disparage the sanctity of his workplace, Hermione broke the kiss, pulling away to look at him. With her hand on his cheek, she pulled the scarf from her wrist, both of them glancing askance to watch the landscape of their compatibility change.

"Well," she said, eyeing the number. "What do you think?"

"I think I might owe George Weasley a fruit basket," Draco said, and pulled her back into his arms, smug with delight at having earned himself a highly coveted prize.

A mouthful of her laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I say this every time, but it's an honor to write for you. To everyone who said something along the lines of, "I never review, but…" I appreciate that I have moved you to such lengths, but do feel free to share the love! Every author would be thrilled to hear your praise; I am no exception. This one is for SpaceKace, because I know how it feels to believe myself the undeserving one; for theskiddlyboop and hexmionegranger, who are tied for enthusiasm; and for riversgirl75, to say this is a case of art imitating life.
> 
> Next week: an epilogue, and the first chapter of my next story. This chapter title comes from the Shakespearean epic 10 Things I Hate About You: "Mostly I hate the way I don't hate you—not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all."


	11. Let's Not Put the 'Duh' in Dumb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I personally hate epilogues, and that's what this chapter is. If you're satisfied with where the story ended, run! If you'd like to hear what I think happened next, carry on.

**Chapter 11: Let's Not Put the 'Duh' in Dumb**

_Three Years Later  
1 September 2005_

It was not particularly surprising to Narcissa Malfoy or anyone else that she would ultimately spend time in prison. She determined she would likely not die there, however, which meant a faultless devotion to good behavior so as to ensure an early release. Keeping politely to herself came naturally, of course; the biggest obstacle, rather, was time, and more specifically, how to fill it. Azkaban, now dementor-less, left ample opportunity for excessive thought, but brains were tricky things in Narcissa's experience. Left to its own devices, hers too often extrapolated troubling projections of her son from the last time she had seen him; i.e., sitting in Wizengamot chambers awaiting sentencing, and highly unlikely to have the future she had diligently allotted for him since his birth, much less any future at all.

So. What to do while avoiding unsavory alliances and skirting destructive thoughts, all with no access to magic?

Read.

Sometime around the inception of her sentence, Narcissa had begun frequenting the rather nonsensical and deeply frivolous publication of  _Witch Weekly_. It was one of the few publications permitted within Azkaban, due to the severe unlikelihood it might incite its violent prisoners to mutiny, being entirely harmless and daintily apolitical. Narcissa had never cared for it much while she'd been out and about in the world—after all, she had a number of more important things to think about than whether such a thing as 'autumnal florals' could be applied to a country kitchen's theme—but now that there was little else to do, it was to be frivolity or nothing. She began reading the prison's single copy slowly, cover to cover, trying to stretch the contents out to fill as much of the week as she could.

Over time, this was how Narcissa came to observe that the outside world must have changed its attitudes entirely, becoming a very different place than the one she'd known. It started quite suddenly; one week there had been nothing but cross-stitch patterns and speculation about whether the pop singer Lily Moon was a shameless hussy, and then the next, boom. The revolution of modernity had begun.

First there was the article about opportunity, which, according to the endnotes, was an edited reprint from its original home in the  _Daily Prophet._  Narcissa, once a prominent patroness of the Sacred School, was startled and largely aghast to see that, post-war, philanthropic dedication to early education was apparently no longer en vogue. Did people no longer care about providing for the well-being of their children? She observed the name Hermione Granger and withheld a bit of scoffery, assuming it to be little more than a blip. Just a liberal-minded, muggle-sympathizing piece, once again bitterly decrying the right of pureblooded progeny to prosper.

Then articles like it began to increase in frequency. First, a piece advocating the elevation (indeed, the legitimization!) of smut in literature left Narcissa so disgusted that she had been forced to recline in silence for nearly an hour. Then came a longer spread about the inequity of female staffers in the Wizengamot, as if swotty girls in unfashionable outfits (who could not find eligible husbands, apparently) were worth her sympathies in the slightest. A beauty charm here and there could do the trick for advancing their positions if they set their minds to it, not to mention learning to hold their tongues! Men, as Narcissa well knew, did not care for excess chatter, but perhaps she was lucky to grasp such things. Good breeding, she gradually conceded, clearly could not be bought.

Somehow, despite the change in agenda, Lily Moon continued to be a frequent feature; her latest album had allegedly unseated Celestina Warbeck's flawless Christmas album as the highest selling wizarding album of all time. (It had been released a year after the article about some sort of obscure nonsense charm that Narcissa could not begin to understand; what a "percentible" was or might have been escaped her sensibilities entirely.) Shortly afterwards, the pop singer established a recording company devoted to advancing female songwriters, though at first Narcissa could not imagine why such a thing was necessary. Why only female songwriters? That seemed a bit unequal, didn't it, for someone who claimed to advance equality? After all, Narcissa was the mother of a capable, talented, and really, quite peerless young man, and could not imagine why there was such a militant uproar against what seemed to be every male who had ever purported to exist.

Then something odd happened. By early 2004, violent feminist Hermione Granger had still not disappeared, and had in fact managed to write an article about Narcissa herself. Not Narcissa exclusively, of course, but rather the culture belonging to the women of the Sacred Twenty-Eight in general, including a number of girls who had been Narcissa's beloved son's contemporaries. Pansy Parkinson, for example, who did not have the ideal nose but who had always carried herself with appropriate poise given her position, spoke at length about the expectations she had ultimately rejected, and it prompted Narcissa to reluctantly wonder whether she, too, had been raised not to become someone, but merely to wed someone. True, Pansy was happily married now (to a Weasley, which was unfortunate, though she seemed to have elevated him successfully given what the article called a likely track to future Minister) but Lucius, for all that Narcissa had done to win him, would have ultimately cost Narcissa her life had she not made considerably different choices of her own volition.

Narcissa had certainly not cared for the implication that the sons of the Sacred Twenty-Eight were some sort of unworthy subspecies, but a minor note about the sons of Crabbe and Goyle (the fathers themselves unspeakable idiots) had reminded Narcissa that those wives, her own classmates, had far exceeded their husbands in nearly every way. Beautiful, poised, and sophisticated despite their husbands being habitually underwhelming in school, stature, and, sadly but undeniably, looks, their bar for failure or success had been notably and perhaps unfairly different. It occurred to Narcissa Malfoy that while she and every pureblood witch she had ever known had put tireless effort into upholding the expectations of her mother (and her mother, and  _her_  mother, and so on) to personify the perfect wife, she had been taught to silently make allowances when Lucius was not the perfect husband. Moreover, she had never been asked whether she might like to accomplish something of her own.

Am I a violent feminist? she wondered, bemused.

Such a pondering carried into 2005, at which point Hermione Granger became a frequent fixture in Narcissa's weekly read. Not always, of course; whoever the editor was—the name 'Patil' did not register in Narcissa's consideration—they had taken a liking to stepping back on occasion from traditional journalism, allowing the subjects of articles to interview each other instead. Lily Moon, for example, interviewed a newly minted female Warlock, who then interviewed a rising author, all part of a curated spread featuring what Narcissa had to admit was quite a lovely series of sartorial statements (whoever had dressed the Warlock should have been applauded, and possibly also knighted).

Hermione did appear in that particular issue for a recent accolade, interviewed by the editor Patil.  _When asked whether she feels there has been any backlash to her outspokenness on the topic of privilege in the wizarding world, Granger is quick to admit she never set out to be popular. "Candidly, I have no experience with popularity to begin with," she says in her notoriously matter-of-fact way, "and therefore I never expect it. Luckily I have a very good example of someone who doesn't particularly care whether people agree with him or not"—here Granger speaks of Harry Potter, her close friend and notable war hero, who recently made headlines for declining the nomination for Head Auror in favor of joining the faculty at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry—"and I can't say I feel any pressure to be silent." On the topic of being publicly snubbed for the Order of Merlin despite her recent authorial debut being named best non-fiction book of the year, Granger gives a dispassionate shrug. "You know, funnily enough, the selection committee for the Order of Merlin consists entirely of men," she remarks, with a glint in her eyes suggesting she's found her next battle. "Coincidental, I'm sure, but… I suppose we'll see, won't we?"_

Narcissa was unsure how to define her internal shift from loathing such articles to devouring them. Perhaps knowing that her own mother would have despised Hermione Granger and everything she stood for had become an unwisely compelling thing? Considering that careful adherence to Lady Druella Black's rules for conduct had still managed to land her in prison, Narcissa began to feel herself looking upon Hermione Granger's attitude with a heightened (albeit reluctant) sense of deference. Oh, the girl was an absolute nuisance, that was unquestionable, and she continued to have the hair and posture of an Amazonian sloth, but her articles, unlike the slew of rubbish that  _Witch Weekly_  had published before, were like falling headfirst into an existential crisis. What else had Narcissa not considered before? In what other ways might she have been gravely and acutely mistaken? She would not know or even begin to predict until she read whatever abominable new crusade it was that Hermione Granger had taken up.

Narcissa took great pleasure, at least, in the knowledge that Hermione Granger was woefully unattached. The girl remained unmarried, continuing to publish articles under her maiden name well into the desperate gasps of her mid-twenties, and that was certainly not surprising. Narcissa had always quietly believed eternal spinsterhood was the cost of being so forcefully vocal, and anyway, she could not imagine what sort of man would ever come to love such a vicious—albeit highly clever—little shrew.

By the time Narcissa's parole hearing came and went, resulting in her long-awaited release, she had developed a strange sort of one-sided kinship with Hermione Granger, whom she both thoroughly hated (truly, the girl's enmity for decorum knew no bounds) and grudgingly admired (because her enmity, however boundless, was very eloquently stated). Narcissa rather looked forward to purchasing Hermione Granger's book (she expected to devour it, marvel at it, and then proceed to mercilessly nitpick it in public, which would bring her great joy) and was pleased to soon be able to commiserate with her son (who, for reasons Narcissa now completely understood, had been both enraptured and repulsed by the bushy little firestarter) when she finally arrived in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

She expected, given her window into the world while she'd been away, that everything would look drastically different. Some things, perhaps, might remain true; she anticipated that Draco would be there to greet her, for one thing. It was her understanding that he had been spared prison time, and she had certainly raised him with faultless attendance to the delineations of propriety. There were no  _specific_  rules about being present to greet one's mother upon her release from prison, but certainly the usual rules for hospitality applied. Draco, true to form, was waiting in the department's lobby with a tasteful spray of flowers and her favorite scarf on the off-chance she found it unreasonably chilly, so that, at least, remained the same.

Some things were certainly different at first glance. The department's layout, for one.

The woman at her son's side, for another.

"Mother," Draco said, restraining his embrace so as not to embarrass them both with excess sentimentality, "you're looking well. Perhaps you might remember Miss Hermione Granger?"

His gesture to the (still-frizzy) journalist beside him was enough to render Narcissa momentarily silent.

"I imagine I must be a surprise," ventured Hermione, who was much smaller in person than Narcissa recalled; minus the hair, which remained cartoonishly enormous. "Unfortunately Draco has been called into the office unexpectedly, whereas I found myself with the afternoon available."

"I'm dreadfully sorry to have to run off," added Draco, though he did not, thankfully, humiliate her with gratuitous consolation. "Unfortunately Nott and I have a deposition, and—"

"Nott?" Narcissa echoed, frowning, as Hermione quickly opened her mouth.

"Yes, he means Theodore Nott, son of The-"

"Yes, she knows," Draco murmured to Hermione, glancing askance. "She means to express confusion at the possibility Theo might possess any responsibilities, deposition-related or otherwise."

"Oh, well that's perfectly reasonable," acknowledged Hermione, returning her attention to Narcissa and launching into unwelcome explanation. "Theo and Draco are collaborating in a series of class action suits against Bertie Botts for restrictive trade practices. It's a rather prominent case, I'm afraid, which is why we felt it best if I escort you through the Ministry," she added, "given how much press coverage Draco's getting lately."

"You're suing the candy company?" Narcissa said, bewildered. Not that she wished to know more, given the utter indecency of legal action, but it was rather intriguing, and besides, she had not had a conversation in nearly five years.

"Well, it's rather a massive conglomerate," Hermione said, adding in a burst of energy, "Did you know the company's wages haven't seen any increase for over three decades? Bertie Botts, Inc. has somehow managed to buy up every major wizarding confection product," she ranted, "and yet the increase in profits—the highest ever recorded," she added pointedly, "has never been extended to anyone else aside from the board and CEO. Even aside from the monopoly issue, their employees are chronically underpaid, not to ment-"

"All of this can wait, of course," Draco hastily assured Narcissa, knowing as he did that it was a hideous obscenity to discuss 'wages' or anything else financial in public. "In the meantime, Hermione will take you home and get you situated."

"May I ask why you have selected Miss Granger for the task?" Narcissa prompted, and briefly, Draco's cheeks flushed.

"Well—"

"As I said, I do have some gaps in my schedule this afternoon," Hermione remarked. "I just have a visit to the healer in about three hours, and then—"

"Oh yes," Narcissa acknowledged, her gaze slowly dropping to Hermione's swollen belly, which was currently being used as a shelf for her forearm. "And would someone like to clarify this, please?"

"Oh, this?" Hermione said, immediately flaming with enthusiasm while Draco offered his mother a genial shrug, suggesting he did not intend to interrupt. "Well, when Harry and Theo initially indicated they would be interested in having a child, I told them I was equally very interested in doing an investigative piece on the practices of wizarding fertility. You know," Hermione added in what seemed to be an aside to Narcissa, "if you want something done right, do it yourself, as they say—"

"So it's not yours, then," Narcissa said, either relieved or disappointed. She wasn't entirely sure which sensation she preferred to feel, all things considered; for a moment she had thought…

But clearly not, and that was surely for the best.

"I suppose I assumed," Narcissa explained with patent cordiality, "what with the two of you being here together, that you were, in fact… together."

"Well," Draco sighed, "there's a bit more to it, Mother—"

"We are very much together," Hermione contributed, as Draco gave a grimacing sort of gesture intended to indicate  _yes, what she said, although my apologies about the delivery_. "Though, if you'd like to ask us about our compatibility, it will have to wait for another time," Hermione added gently. "We realize we have very public roles, of course, but this is, unfortunately, a matter of privacy—"

"You know, perhaps I should push the deposition," Draco remarked, glancing at Hermione. "Don't you think?"

"Certainly not," Hermione scoffed. "It can't be more than an hour, can it?"

"Yes, but with my mother here, and given your appointment—"

"You'll be back with plenty of time to spare, and in the meantime, your mother and I will be fine," Hermione assured him, turning to Narcissa. "Won't we?"

Narcissa had not been listening. Instead she was scrutinizing Hermione's fingers, searching for evidence of a ring.

"Are you married?" Narcissa asked, glancing between them. It was not, perhaps, an 'appropriate' question, but her manners were rather rusty. Prison had that effect, and given what she had recently been informed, it seemed a highly pertinent question.

"Oh, heavens no, Draco would never get married without you," Hermione said, giving a somewhat incongruous laugh. "I proposed it once, but in his defense it was very impulsively, and—"

" _You_  proposed," Narcissa echoed with alarm, "to  _him_?"

"No, no," Hermione corrected. "I proposed we get married, but of course Malfoy was the one who did the actual proposing."

Narcissa's puzzlement continued to rail against her more refined instincts. "So then you're… engaged?" she prompted, in yet another episode of regrettable prying she would later deny.

"Us? No," Hermione said. "Not officially, anyway."

"So you're together, but you're having someone else's baby," Narcissa parsed out slowly, unable to decide whether that was better or worse.

"No, this is Draco's baby," Hermione said, frowning. "Apologies, where did we lose you?"

Narcissa, who was unable to decide whether the modern world was  _indeed_  unrecognizable or if this was actually a very strange dream, opted to cling to what was left of her poise and remain perfectly silent.

"Granger," Draco murmured, ostensibly to Hermione, "we've talked about this."

Narcissa watched as her son and his maybe-wife, possible-mother-of-his-child briefly exchanged a silent conversation they seemed to have had other versions of before, until which point it resolved with a sigh from Hermione.

"I'm terribly sorry," Hermione said, turning back to Narcissa. "It has been brought to my attention that I sometimes have difficulty determining what sort of information people want to know. Are there any questions you'd like me to answer for you?"

Yes, many.

"Are you married?" Narcissa asked them.

"Not at the moment," Draco said, "though we do plan to be married quite soon."

"Loosely," Hermione clarified hastily. " _Loosely_  plan. We're trying not to constrict ourselves with meaningless constructs of social norms."

"Though possibly this afternoon," Draco added, "if you've no other pressing engagements."

Narcissa blinked.

"You loosely plan to be married this afternoon if I've no pressing engagements," she summarized, hoping it would make more sense if she said it aloud. It did not, but that seemed to be beside the point.

"It was one possible consideration," Hermione explained gently, "though of course there are many things to consider. Draco seems convinced you'll want something more traditional, but as I explained to him, I've just finished a piece about the many ways in which the wedding industry is an unrepentant sham, and one that largely targets women. Did you know that florals have a 300% markup simply due to the inclusion of the word 'wedding' in the invoice?" Hermione demanded, though she was off and running before Narcissa could reply. "And also, as far as diamonds go, that was only made a 'tradition' by jewelry corporations in the early twentieth century—which is not to even  _begin_  discussing the ethics of diamond mining—"

"What she means," Draco cut in quickly, observing Narcissa's brief spell of glazed-over disinterest, "is we've agreed that we  _want_  to be married, knowing as we do that it would be quite stupid to deny that we're meant for each other—"

"And we do rather hate being idiots," Hermione lamented.

"—but," Draco concluded, "we're not convinced we require the ceremony of a traditional wedding. In addition to everything else that's a sham about weddings," he added, in apparent deference to Hermione's point, "which I believe she's already covered."

"I'd hardly say it's been covered, exactly, but the article will be out Monday. Oh, and before you ask, I will concede that the necessity of Ministry fees and paperwork  _at all_  is quite suspect," Hermione said to Narcissa with a conciliatory shrug, "but unfortunately it does factor into legal matters, and with a child on the way—"

"Oh, yes, about that," Draco said, appearing to have finally remembered that particular detail. "I don't suppose you'd mind if we named her after you, would you, Mother?"

"We'd call her by some sort of diminutive, of course. Rose, in fact, if she's even a girl," Hermione said with an admonishing glance at Draco before turning back to Narcissa. "Two Narcissas would be needlessly confusing, but as we thought Narcissa Rose had a lovely ring to it—"

"But the… surrogacy?" Narcissa asked with a brief wince, the word itself being something she wouldn't have dared to bring up in polite company five years ago.

"Oh, yes, well, I agreed to do it," Hermione confirmed, "but I'm sure you know perfectly well that Draco's the traditional type. Said he would have to insist that we have a child ourselves before I go around birthing them for other people."

"Call me misanthropic," Draco confirmed drily, "but I'm rather set in my ways."

"I had some doubts about motherhood, given my other aspirations," Hermione said, "but that's the benefit of having a female employer, isn't it? Padma was more than willing to offer me a very generous maternity leave—"

"—and since I set my own schedule and attend very rigorously to Theo's, it seemed highly reasonable we would equally share customary parenting duties," Draco said, adding, "And also, it was something of an accident."

"I'm rarely irresponsible," Hermione sighed regretfully, "but I'm afraid over the course of my investigative piece about magical birth control, something must have unsettled my contraceptive enchantment. Either that, or Draco's virility was simply—"

"In any case, we're very happy," Draco concluded firmly, glancing at Narcissa with what seemed to be a nudge, as if he thought perhaps she ought to be happy as well. "And we're more than willing to talk further, of course, but as I already pushed the meeting back twenty minutes, I do unfortunately have to run before Nott decides to establish his own candy empire." He glanced at his watch, then back at his mother, adding, "Will you be alright, then?"

There were a number of alarms sounding in Narcissa's head. No wedding, for one thing. Premarital sex. Public lives? Tawdry, to say the least. Pregnancy. A law career? At least Draco's responsibilities appeared to be transactional in nature. Contracts were mildly less offensive, though there would be no custom-ordered mother-of-the-groom robes from Twilfitt and Tattings. No carefully authored calligraphy to subtly prove she was better than all of her friends via handwritten postscripts on the wedding invitations. Money? Did she still have money? There wasn't even going to be a wedding! Not to mention the girl was pregnant. Or that the girl was  _Hermione Granger_ , muggleborn and frizzy—her hair! her  _hair_ , for heaven's sake—and also, she was with child. (WITH. CHILD.) How could they possibly think they could run off and not have a proper wedding? There was a baby! What if it had its mother's hair? The world was strange indeed; unrecognizable. Had the house been repossessed? Did the two of them cohabitate? Narcissa winced to consider what her friends might say. And who had cared for her beloved gardenias in her absence? The new issue of  _Witch Weekly_  was probably on the stands, and now her favorite and most reviled author was currently standing in front of her, shamelessly copulating with her precious baby son, and—

Her son.

Abruptly, Narcissa's thoughts came to a halt.

Her son, whom she had missed rather intensely while she'd been away, not only appeared to be in perfect health, but also, quite possibly, luminously happy. It showed on his face, gleaming from every inch of it. True, he appeared to have made some highly questionable choices while she'd been away, and yes, he was robbing her of one of the only spectacles a woman of her stature was ever permitted to embrace with enthusiasm, but he was not in prison, and he was not suffering, and his life, which had not been the one she had imagined for him even remotely, seemed to suit him blissfully.

Everything else, Narcissa thought with an inward sigh of concession, was purely circumstantial.

"I expect we'll speak further at dinner," she said, delivering her opinions on the subject with a brevity her son would surely appreciate. "May I request we dress for the occasion, or will that be unacceptable to your recent liberalities?"

"White tie or black?" Draco asked, confirming his relief.

"I hope you never again ask me such an impertinent question," said Narcissa, perhaps too fondly.

"Excellent." Draco stepped forward, aiming a thoughtful kiss at the air beside Narcissa's cheek. "Dinner, then. Granger," he ventured, turning to Hermione, "shall I meet you at St Mungo's after you get my mother settled?"

"I'm sure she's perfectly capable of settling herself, Malfoy, but yes," said Hermione.

"Wonderful. Enjoy your afternoon," he said with a warmth that bordered on profane, and disapparated, leaving Hermione and Narcissa alone together.

"Shall we?" Hermione prompted, leading Narcissa to the lifts. "I figured we'd take the Floo exits to the Malfoy estate, and then from there—"

Given the circumstances, Narcissa decided to indulge a bit of candor. It was a modern world now, and besides, if she did not change the subject, Hermione Granger would inevitably continue her assault of trivialities.

"Draco mentioned something about the two of you being meant for each other," Narcissa remarked, and Hermione glanced at her with something that was either confusion or… no, it seemed to be confusion.

"I suppose he did," she said slowly, and Narcissa cleared her throat.

"Well, I imagine it comes as no surprise that I'd like to hear how that's remotely possible. I have some idea of your politics, you know," Narcissa pointed out, "and I find it exceedingly unlikely that you and my son could possibly be soulmates."

Hermione, she observed, did not seem to find this offensive. She seemed, in fact, to find it an opportunity for thought, poring over it in silence for several seconds as they both stepped into the lift.

"You know, I have this theory," Hermione said, abruptly breaking the silence just as the doors opened to the lobby of the heavily redecorated Ministry. "Well," she amended, "it's not technically my theory—I suppose you're familiar with the doctrines of the multiverse?"

To Narcissa's prompting silence, Hermione spurred herself along.

"The point is, every now and then I consider how easily I fell in love with Draco, and I imagine that I must have done it before, or perhaps I'm currently doing it in other versions of myself, or at some point—in some other world—I haven't yet, but I'm about to. But then," she sighed, "I think there must be versions where he and I do not manage to find each other, or possibly we do and something goes wrong. And rather than filling me with despondency, I think: 'Well, what a relief I have him in this one.'"

She glanced at Narcissa, gauging her for a response.

"After that," Hermione said slowly, "everything else just becomes rather circumstantial, doesn't it?"

Well, Narcissa thought.

She supposed she had been behaving rather foolishly.

"Forgive me," she said. "I hadn't realized it was such a straightforward matter."

"Not to worry," Hermione assured her, relieved. "I once entertained similar ponderings myself."

"You mentioned compatibility," Narcissa recalled, easing them into casual conversation as they walked. "You don't mean the Weasley charm, do you?"

"Oh, you know about that? Strange to think that's become such a normal part of life while you've been away."

"Very strange indeed."

"To answer your question, I did mean the charm, though I suppose I don't think about it much anymore."

"Is it less popular now?"

"Oh no, it's definitely quite popular, just more of a… presumed fixture. George—Weasley, of course, I'm sure you know of him," Hermione said, as Narcissa gave a nod, "had a very lavish wedding last year—opulent, really, and highly self-indulgent, but that's George—and anyway… what was I saying? Oh, yes, to hear him tell it, his flat was veritably  _filled_  with owls thanking him for his contributions to society."

"Was it really?"

"Well, there were howlers, too, expressing entirely the opposite. But George seems to find them funny, and I suppose Lily doesn't mind."

Ah yes; that much  _Witch Weekly_  had certainly covered. "Lily Moon, you mean?"

"Lily Moon," Hermione confirmed.

"Strange," Narcissa said. "Didn't she just come out with an album?"

"Hm? Oh yes, not long after the wedding, in fact."

"Rare to find a pop singer who does their best work when they're happily married," Narcissa commented doubtfully, and Hermione shrugged.

"Turns out she has more to say, I suppose," she said.

They strode to the Floo exits, selecting a queue as Narcissa glanced down, observing Hermione more closely in the absence of her son. The girl may have been an oddity, Narcissa thought, but she did dress very well, and perhaps this explained the most recent  _Witch Way_ spread on how to feel stylish in maternity robes. (Narcissa wished it had been available when she'd been pregnant; there was, after all, such a flimsy distinction between 'comfortable' and 'dowdy,' and she had so vehemently dreaded chancing the latter.)

"Narcissa Rose, you said?" Narcissa asked Hermione.

"Or Scorpius Hyperion, if it's a boy."

"A bit stiff, isn't it?"

"Well, that's Draco," Hermione said, with the air of someone who'd had that argument before and had opted to compromise graciously rather than lose outright.

"Hm," Narcissa allowed, before sighing, "Well, I suppose it's best I have something to do, anyway. I imagine I'd be bored out of my wits without something to nurture."

"I'm quite sure you're more than qualified for other things, if you wanted," Hermione said. "I believe Harry said something about teaching an advanced symposium on occlumency during his Defense course. Perhaps you might help with that?"

Narcissa balked, startled. "Whatever gives you the impression I'd be good at that?"

It was indecent, the thought of teaching something so… well, difficult. Very complex, and admittedly Narcissa had a rare skill with it. But it was also quite a vulgar topic, considering its usage was meant to remain unspoken. Not to mention the profession of teaching itself was, according to her mother, for spinsters; at best a mere stopover position for ugly girls on the way to eventual marriage.

"Just a hunch," Hermione said. "And anyway, it was just an idea."

A distressing one. Highly unseemly.

Though, strangely, quite flattering.

And anyway, Lady Druella Black had been wrong before.

"Did you say Theo Nott and… Harry Potter?" Narcissa asked, abruptly remembering that had previously been mentioned.

"Unfortunately I did," Hermione confirmed with a grimace. "It continues to be both unhindered and unhinged, though I suppose it's much more alarming to hear Nott's been tapped for the Wizengamot."

"That  _is_  much more alarming," Narcissa confirmed, before noting the slight rumble of discomfort in her stomach. "Oh, heavens, I'm famished. Though, I don't suppose the elves have anything prepared," she sighed to the radical muggleborn who was to be her only company for the next hour, "do they?"

She anticipated further tedium; perhaps a tiresome lecture on the rights of elves.

"Don't be silly," Hermione said instead. "They've unionized, obviously, but still, Draco knows your fondness for cream tea."

For reasons Narcissa would never openly explain, she found herself immensely relieved. Nearly everything about the world was unrecognizable, but this, at long last, was beyond what she could have hoped. Briefly, she permitted the flicker of a smile, which was not necessarily directed at Hermione herself, but more at the concept of life continuing.

So things were the same, then, and only very slightly different.

"Well, then," said Narcissa, stepping into the Floo and hurrying her future daughter-in-law along, on the off-chance they had the time to do something about her hair before that afternoon.  _She_ may not have cared about weddings or her appearance or whether or not prettiness was or was not a male construct, but there were still some things Narcissa would cling to, thankyouverymuch. "I suppose we shouldn't waste a moment."

* * *

_**FIN** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For MadeupMeeple, who brings me joy; Crystal Koneko, who saw all the things; Smile4meDraco, because *pain face*; and BoredRavenvlaw620, because, one enthusiast to another, "hopeful, insightful, playful" was a perfect set of words. For those I didn't get a chance to thank, I did see you, and maybe I will see you again in the next story? If not, I am grateful; I would not be here if not for you. Oh, and the chapter title comes verbatim from the film that defines an era: Bring It On.
> 
> Brief reminders: the playlist for this story is available on Spotify. If you want to know about my books/original work, feel free to check out my stuff on my website or tumblr. If you like a fic, please consider reviewing and recommending to friends/groups/blogs. Not just my fics, though I do appreciate it more than I can possibly say. We create for free and shout aimlessly to the void, so this is the only way we will ever know if our work is loved.
> 
> Lastly, an introduction to my next fic, **How Lady Vengeance Takes Her Tea** :
> 
> _Despite the gallantry of its courtiers and the gleam of its enchantments, the heart of the burgeoning wizarding world isn't quite the dazzle it appears. Faced with the secrets of her new husband's curse, an unwilling queen finds herself with an impossible choice: kill him to save her life, or risk her own to save his. Dramione, fairytale AU._
> 
> This is a historical version of the Potterverse, using Potterverse magic but with a different social structure (specifically, Georgian) and, of course, a different setting and plot. If you've read Spinning Silver by Naomi Novik, you may recognize the story as being inspired by Irina and Mirnatius. My customary preview is available here as chapter 12, should you care to try it out.
> 
> Thank you for reading this story; I'm aware that it contains some of my most flawed characters. My intent was not to give you a perfect heroine, but to make you believe perfection is not a prerequisite for love. Whether I managed it or not, it has been an honor to put the words down for you; I sincerely hope you've enjoyed the story.
> 
> xx, Olivie


	12. How Lady Vengeance Takes Her Tea Preview

_**How Lady Vengeance Takes Her Tea**_   **Preview**

* * *

_**a/n:** _ _And now for something completely different—a preview of my new WIP,_ _**How Lady Vengeance Takes Her Tea** _ _._

* * *

It's been some time since you last visited your grandmother; perhaps not since you sat for your N.E.W.T.s, though you can hardly be blamed for that. You've been busy with your new job, firstly, which everyone agrees is understandable, and your father only recently secured his second term as Minister, so your grandmother hasn't necessarily been a priority for some time. Now, though, Papa insists you pay a visit, and so you join your grandmother in the usual place in the garden, sitting down with her for tea on a particularly crisp autumn afternoon.

"I suppose I ought to tell you a story," remarks your grandmother, after the usual gratuitous praise for how well you look and the perfunctory questions about your post-graduate studies. You, of course, are mindlessly smearing strawberry jam onto a scone and thinking about how you're much too old for this; but Papa insisted you pay a visit, so it's probably best you don't complain.

"Have I told you the one about Lady Vengeance?" Grandmother asks.

A snappy title, that. You say no, though presumably Grandmother will have her say regardless, and predictably, she does. "Well," says your grandmother, "Lady Vengeance was born in a very different world than the one we're all accustomed to now, petal. There was no Minister for Magic then," she explains, glancing fondly at Papa's portrait, "and the Ministry itself was just beginning its rise to prominence. Wizarding court was a mirror of the muggle one, you know," she adds, and you nod, just to prove you're listening. "There were lords scrambling for power in both Parliament and the Ministry at the time, but both were still governed by a king."

King Lucius, you supply primly. You know this because you received an Outstanding in History of Magic, and also, it isn't as if this is Grandmother's first foray into the mythos of her glamorous youth. Still, the stories of glittering ballgowns and fashionable courtiers are her bread and butter, as far as you're concerned. They are where her countless tales come most successfully to life.

"Yes, King Lucius," your grandmother confirms, "and his was an extravagant court indeed. But beneath the illuminating charms and beauty enchantments, his courtiers mainly glittered with ambition, and thus the king was made to keep a careful watch over their schemes. Wizarding monarchy was on a decline," she laments, "and the king was constantly surrounded by backstabbing nobles and spies. Beauty, then, was made to be everywhere, if only to obscure the ugliness of court politics."

Your smear of clotted cream smooths easily over the jam as you listen.

"The king had a son, of course; famously handsome, even as a boy. Rotten through and through, too, and dreadfully spoilt, with terrible rumors following him like a shadow, making him sullen and quiet over time. His mother died very young, you know," she says, pouring a bit of milk into her tea. "An illness, or so the palace claimed, though many reported having seen the queen in perfect health the very day she died. When young Prince Draco did not spill a single tear upon hearing the news, many suspected him of having contributed in some way to her death; perhaps having cursed her in a rage, or having struck her from some kind of tantrum."

You think this is a terrible thing to accuse a child of doing, but of course you become distracted when you register the mention of Prince Draco, because that is another name you know.

"Ah yes, the prince," your grandmother remarks with a chuckle, catching the look on your face. Regrettably, she seems fully aware that you and your housemates stared overlong at the prince's portrait in your fifth year textbooks. "I told you he was handsome, didn't I?"

You think it's heartily embarrassing to be discussing handsome men with your grandmother, so you bite demurely into your scone while she laughs.

"In any case, Lady Vengeance did not think much of him either," she continues, "nor he of her, not at first. They met as children, encountering each other upon one of the prince's rare visits to Hogwarts. There was always something between them, or so legend has it, though it did not matter for much until nearly ten years later. By then, King Lucius had already been murdered, and—"

Here you look up with a start, because no such thing was taught in your textbooks. King Lucius was certainly not murdered.

"He certainly was," your grandmother scoffs.

No, impossible. You've read all the books, and never has there been any mention of King Lucius' death at all, outside of it being untimely.

"Untimely and unnatural," assures your grandmother, "as murder so often is."

Now you're intrigued, largely as a professional matter. What did Lady Vengeance have to do with it? It's certainly possible your grandmother has gone a bit dotty, seeing as she ought to know you're not some gullible child. Was Lady Vengeance the reason for everything that came next?

"Oh yes, undoubtedly," your grandmother says. "She is, after all, the reason there is no longer a curse upon the bloodlines of the Sacred Twenty-Eight."

Curse? Now you're a bit disappointed, as this is clearly just another fairy story your grandmother is spinning to try and mesmerize you, mistaking you for the same young girl you once were. You are old enough now not to hang on her every word, and certainly to understand that there are no such things as curses; not the kind your grandmother means, anyway.

"There used to be, in my day," Grandmother primly corrects you. "Prince Draco had one, and everyone knew it. Even," she adds, "those who did not."

Well, now that's just nonsense. Blood curses have been debunked several times over, for one thing. You've studied them yourself, and in no recorded instance was it ever actually a curse, but always something else. A poltergeist. A bit of bad luck here and there, or simply a highly clever witch or wizard for an adversary. But since your grandmother is unlikely to be convinced by any logic you put forth, instead you tempt her with a test.

Assuming the curse was real, how could she know for sure whether this so-called Lady Vengeance had anything to do with breaking it?

"Well, petal," your grandmother says with a smile, "I know because I saw her do it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which: Olivie writes historical romance, give or take some demonic possession; Georgian gowns come laced with questionable motives; any prospective balls, weddings, or society affairs arrive with the caveat of possible murder; and all in all, a rather uppity grandmother takes her time getting to the point.
> 
> The full first chapter, should you choose to accept it, is available to follow now. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy!


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